Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV) RPF

Relationships:

Connor Storrie/Hudson Williams, Connor Storrie & Hudson Williams

Characters:

Hudson Williams, Connor Storrie

Additional Tags:

Slash, longfic, Romance, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn, RPF, Friends to Lovers, Emotional Infidelity, Codependency

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-31 Updated: 2026-05-30 Words: 346,283 Chapters: 23/?

What We Always Were

Summary

Hudson and Connor are best friends. Both are in stable relationships, and they’re about to begin filming the second season of Heated Rivalry. But a matching bracelet becomes the breaking point. Not only between them and their partners, but between the two of them as well. It marks the beginning of a deeper realization: what exists between them can no longer be defined as just friendship.
***

"Because he’s my best friend," he said through his teeth.

"And I’m your boyfriend," François replied without raising his voice. "But when you’re tired, when you’re scared, when you start to doubt… you don’t choose me."

Silence fell between them again, more unbearable than before.

"I’m not saying you don’t love me," he added, quieter. "I’m saying I’m not the place where your heart comes to rest."

Connor swallowed. His throat felt tight, like anything he said would break something else.

"That’s not fair…"

"Maybe it’s not," François admitted, looking at him with a mix of exhaustion and pain. "But it’s my truth, and Connor, the truth is it hurts like hell to love someone who’s always looking somewhere else."

Notes

Disclaimer: This work features real people (especially Hudson, Connor, and François). While much of it is fictional, some elements are loosely inspired by real events.

The central pairing is Connor/Hudson; however, Connor/François appears early on and spans several chapters. If that’s not your thing, feel free to skip. This relationship is not healthy, and it will be present for a significant portion of the fic.

Chapter 1: Our Bracelets

Chapter Notes

"Where are you?"

Hudson sent the message, but he didn’t leave the chat window. He kept it open, holding the phone against the steering wheel as if staring at it might somehow hurry a reply along. Connor didn’t usually make him wait for an answer. Normally his response time ranged from immediate to barely a minute; sometimes he even replied before Hudson had locked his phone or even put it away. But not today.

The “online” indicator didn’t appear. Neither did the little typing bubble that pops up when someone is writing. Nothing.

They had agreed to meet in the parking lot of Metropolis at Metrotown at exactly ten in the morning. Connor had been the one who insisted—with that almost childlike enthusiasm that defined him—on going to Peoples to buy that pair of burgundy braided bracelets and getting them engraved to match. Connor had suggested it after the ones a fan had given them on the road both snapped. “Is it a sign?” Connor had said, laughing, as if the fact that they’d broken didn’t really bother him. At the time, Hudson had nodded, pretending it didn’t matter to him either, though he had slipped the broken pieces of his into the pocket of his jacket.

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Ten forty.

Connor didn’t usually run late, and he had never been late to a time they’d set to meet. In fact, Connor was pretty punctual when something truly mattered to him, and the thought—that maybe today wasn’t one of those times, that seeing him wasn’t important enough to show up early or at least on time—lodged itself in Hudson’s chest like a small, sharp thorn. He felt the irritation begin to climb up through his chest and settle somewhere in his throat. For Hudson, it was much easier to cling to that—the pointless annoyance about someone being late. It was far easier than letting his mind drift toward more intrusive thoughts..

Because if Connor wasn’t late by choice, then it meant something had happened. That something bad had happened. And Hudson simply didn’t want to think about that.

He looked at his phone again, but there was still no reply. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, and he exhaled slowly, trying to convince himself he was overreacting. Connor always had an explanation for everything—and they were never excuses. He always showed up smiling, his grin stretching from ear to ear like nothing in the world could touch him.

Hudson finally gave up, locked his phone, and tossed it onto the empty passenger seat. But the moment he turned the key in the ignition to pull out, he saw Connor’s car entering the parking lot. He recognized it even before he looked at the license plate. Connor found a spot with far more ease than Hudson had. He lined the car up neatly between the painted lines of the space, only about five cars away from where Hudson was parked. Then he shut off the engine and got out with such unhurried calm, as if he weren’t in any rush, as if Hudson hadn’t been waiting for him for over forty minutes.

Hudson felt an irritated flutter in his stomach. He was relieved that Connor had shown up after all, that nothing bad had happened to him. But the feeling pressing against his chest was still one of annoyance. Once his brain registered that Connor was fine, he couldn’t help the internal grumble at the idea that Connor had apparently just shown up late without saying a word. No message. No call. Not even a random throwaway excuse. Nothing.

He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. He focused on controlling his breathing—inhaling slowly and exhaling even more slowly—making sure he wouldn’t be an asshole when they finally spoke. He told himself it wasn’t a big deal. That only a few minutes had passed. That Connor had every right to be late once in a while. After all, he never had been before, not even when he had something scheduled before they met. And today wasn’t one of those days.

Hudson wasn’t sure how long he stayed there with his eyes closed, consciously trying to steady his breathing, until a few soft knocks sounded against the driver’s side window.

When he opened his eyes, Connor was slightly hunched, leaning down to try to see through the glass. He was wearing a denim jacket, a black T-shirt underneath, and a cap the same color pulled low over his hair. He looked… smaller than usual, or maybe it was just the way he was standing. Hudson sighed before he even realized it and pushed the car door open.

"Sorry," Connor said immediately, the moment Hudson stepped out.

Hudson noticed right away that they were dressed almost the same. The same dark color palette, the same casual vibe; the only difference was that Hudson’s jacket was black. But even their cargo pants matched in color, and both of them were wearing white sneakers, as if that morning they’d called each other from their closets just to ask what the other was planning to wear.

"Your confidence is a little terrifying," Hudson said, trying not to sound annoyed. "You came here completely sure I’d still be waiting for you."

Hudson tried to force a smile, but none came.

"I’m sorry," Connor repeated, this time less hurried, though the desperate edge in his voice was still there.

Hudson was about to say something—he wasn’t sure exactly what, only that it would probably come out colder than usual because he was pissed. He had been adjusting his jacket and smoothing out his pants when he got out of the car, in a somewhat useless attempt to keep Connor from noticing how uncomfortable he felt about having waited so long. Because of that, he hadn’t really looked at him properly. So when he finally did, his breath caught: the swelling around Connor’s eyes, the redness along his lower lids, and that faint pink line tracing the curve of his upper lip.

"Oh…" he said, and the irritation vanished from his chest as if it had never been there. "Are you okay?"

The question came out softer than he intended. Because the annoyance had left room only for concern. It was pretty obvious that Connor had been crying, and judging by his face, maybe not that long ago. Hudson knew immediately that maybe Connor had given himself just enough time to pull himself together, change his clothes, put on the cap as a useless barrier, and then come to meet him. Or maybe he had just cried in the car on the way to the mall. The point was, nothing Connor might have tried would have been enough to keep Hudson from noticing.

"It’s nothing," Connor lied. "I’m really sorry, Huddy."

Hudson didn’t answer right away. He just stared at Connor, waiting for the moment he would give in and admit that he wasn’t actually fine. It was a little shameless of him to claim otherwise, considering the state of his face. The lie wasn’t new, at least not in the past few months. And in a way, Hudson didn’t even mind it. What pissed him off was how easily Connor used it on him. And the worst part was that every time he used it again, he seemed better at it. Connor had to be incredibly naive to think that Hudson, of all people, would believe him. Connor could have shown up without any visible signs of crying, but Hudson would have immediately noticed that something was wrong

A stab of anger rising from deep in his gut settled into his chest. He hated that Connor played dumb, that he pretended everything was normal when it clearly wasn’t. What was going on? Since when couldn’t they just say things to each other? They were supposed to be best friends. There weren’t supposed to be any forbidden topics between them.

And yet Hudson couldn’t shake the bitter taste spreading across his tongue as he sensed—no, as he was almost completely certain—what had happened.

This had turned into a loop. The same scene repeating itself with slight variations: Connor spending too long on his phone, Connor with tired eyes, Connor pretending nothing was wrong, Connor quieter than usual, laughing a second too late at things or pretending he’d understood something someone had said, because he was always distracted in the middle of a conversation. Or the opposite—too talkative, filling the space with ridiculous jokes that weren’t even funny to him. Hudson was starting to get furious at the way Connor seemed to have accepted that wear and tear as something normal, as if feeling exhausted, distracted, and defensive was just part of being in a relationship. As if loving someone inevitably meant feeling broken.

"Did you two argue again?" Hudson asked bluntly.

He didn’t bother trying to be subtle, because he didn’t have the patience and because he was honestly starting to get tired of the situation. And it wasn’t exactly because of Connor—it was everything around it. Maybe the only thing he could resent Connor for was how he had come to normalize, even romanticize, such an unbalanced relationship and cling to it with everything he had as if it were his salvation.

Connor dropped his gaze immediately, unable to hold Hudson’s eyes, and his shoulders tensed as he did. So Hudson knew there was no need to dig any deeper. The answer was clear, right there in front of him. He closed his eyes for a second, just to keep from saying something he might regret. He sighed, resting his hands on his hips, bit his lower lip, and tried with all his strength—though he failed—not to let his voice reveal how annoyed he felt about it.

"What happened this time?" he continued. He was grateful his tone sounded light; he didn’t want to be too sharp and add more stress to his friend’s shoulders. Because no matter how much his blood was boiling, no matter how much it felt like this had become a vicious cycle, the last thing Connor needed after arguing with his boyfriend was for his best friend to act like a damn insensitive asshole.

"Huddy…" Connor said, and the name came out almost like a plea.

Hudson understood immediately, just from the way Connor said his name, that he didn’t want to talk about it. And he understood—he really did—but he couldn’t stop the sudden salty taste filling his mouth or the heaviness settling in his chest. Because part of him, maybe the most self-aware or the most honest part, kept telling him that the whole situation might somehow be connected to him. To his constant presence in Connor’s life, to the space he occupied there, to the closeness they both insisted was innocent in front of everyone. Connor and Hudson shared a bond that people often found hard to understand. They were simply tied together by an invisible thread that kept pulling them close, no matter what—or who—stood in the way.

Hudson clenched his jaw, making an extra effort to swallow everything he had been about to say. Because it wouldn’t be fair, and it certainly wasn’t necessary right now. Connor didn’t deserve to be suddenly confronted either, as if Hudson could somehow force him to see reason. So he just nodded and decided to let it go.

"Do you still want to go get those bracelets?" Hudson asked, giving Connor’s cheek a light pinch.

Connor smiled at the gesture. It was a brief, affectionate pinch—something pretty common between them. It was Hudson’s way of saying I’m here for you without actually putting it into words. Hudson knew that if he opened his mouth to say anything about it, it would only be to spew a bunch of crap about Connor’s boyfriend. And that would do nothing to ease the pile of emotions his friend was carrying right now. So he chose a gesture instead. Hudson always chose gestures—big or small—when it came to Connor.

"Please," Connor said, looking up at the sky as if his prayer had just been answered.

Then he smiled. As warm and bright as always. Hudson liked seeing him smile like that, when he let his teeth show and his eyes lit up at the same time. That kind of smile didn’t just make Connor’s face glow—it made him look even younger, sometimes almost boyish. But Hudson liked that expression, because it was a public declaration of sincerity. It was the face of someone setting aside the mask and the lie, simply becoming himself again. Connor shone—he always did when he was happy, and even when he wasn’t.

Because Connor was like the sun. And Hudson, without ever really thinking about it, always ended up orbiting around him.

***

Connor was driving along Main Street after saying goodbye to Hudson outside Sula Indian, not far from here. It was Tuesday morning, and somehow that made everything feel slower than usual. The streets weren’t crowded with people, since many, apparently, were at work, which made things a lot more comfortable because they didn’t feel like they were being watched the whole time. They were able to walk down the street without rushing and take their time talking as they walked.

Even so, they had been stopped at least four times to ask for a photo. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Ever since the series had become such a success, their faces weren’t exactly something that went unnoticed by those who had seen it. Each time, almost by reflex, they both covered the bracelet with the sleeve of their jacket or turned their wrist at the last second. It wasn’t even something they had told each other they should do, but they had both done it as if they had practiced the choreography. It wasn’t that they minded showing it — neither of them really had a problem with that — but they wanted it to be just theirs for at least one day. Just the two of them. Before their fans replicated it, before someone read more into it than it actually meant or than they were willing to accept, before the speculation started circulating the way it always did.

Connor let out a quiet laugh at the thought, just as the traffic light turned red. He slowed down before coming to a stop and turned his wrist, looking at the bracelet. The soft flashes of sunlight reflected off the small white-gold plate, intensifying the woven burgundy wrapped around his wrist and illuminating the engraving with each movement of the car: “Hollanov – Hudcon”.

An involuntary smile crossed his face when he looked at the bracelet on his wrist. There was something comforting about seeing that bracelet, about feeling the weight around his wrist, about knowing Hudson wore an identical one and what it meant to both of them. Connor felt a flutter of joy in his chest, as if that small bracelet could suddenly quiet all the bad thoughts, as if it could dissolve all the emotions tightening in his chest. But just as that absurd happiness settled in his chest, it evaporated the same way. Because feeling like that inevitably made him contrast it with how he had felt that morning, when he had argued with François.

The memory hit him again when it returned with such clarity.

"I really don’t understand it," François had said from the bedroom doorway.

Connor stood in front of the mirror, carefully adjusting his cap, making sure his curls were properly covered. He didn’t turn right away; at first, the remark hadn’t seemed especially serious.

"What don’t you understand?" he replied, adjusting the brim one last time.

"Doesn’t that count as a couple’s thing?" François continued, crossing his arms and leaning against the column in the wall across from him positioned diagonally from him. "Don’t you think that’s only going to keep feeding the rumors surrounding you two?"

Connor turned his head slightly, feeling somewhat confused.

"He’s my best friend," he said bluntly, as if that were enough to close the subject.

François scoffed, letting out a sharp breath through his teeth, making it clear to Connor that it wasn’t a humorous expression — quite the opposite.

"What’s going on?" Connor asked, finally giving him his full attention. Until that moment, he hadn’t understood that this wasn’t a casual conversation.

"I suppose nothing’s going on," François replied, in a bitter tone that made Connor frown. "It’s just… curious. Curious to see how my boyfriend keeps feeding a ship with his best friend, while I get flooded with hate for being the one standing between you."

At this point, if François had tried to hide his annoyance before, he wasn’t doing it anymore.

"But—"

"What’s the point?" he interrupted.

Connor took a step toward him when he sensed the tension in the air. His face had tightened, and he moved his hands in the air, urging him to stay calm.

"It’s not like we need it," he said, moving closer and reaching for his hands. "We used to have one of those bracelets, the ones with the colored beads, the ones a fan gave us, remember? They broke. We liked them a lot, so we just want to have them made in a material that won’t break every time the Canadian wind decides to go crazy."

He caught François’s hands between his own, as if the contact might somehow fix things. But François pulled away carefully. He did it firmly, but without being rough or rude. He walked into the living room and dropped onto the couch, picking up his phone, effectively ending the conversation without saying a word.

“Are you jealous of Huddy?” Connor asked, genuinely incredulous.

François didn’t respond.

“You know he’s my…”

“Best friend, yeah,” he cut in softly, but Connor couldn’t help feeling hurt, because François said it with a kind of exhaustion, like it was a line Connor repeated so often he was fucking tired of hearing it. So it was inevitable that Connor’s irritation surfaced.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked. “Would you feel better if I didn’t buy it?”

“Do whatever you want.”

“That’s not fair,” Connor shot back, the words slipping through clenched teeth. “You started this conversation. And, I don’t know, maybe I’m the only one on the same page here but… we’re both aware Hudson has a girlfriend and that I’m in a relationship with you, right?”

François finally looked up. There was something in his eyes, in the way he looked at Connor, that only irritated Connor even more, because he didn’t like it. He couldn’t quite explain that expression, couldn’t read it in that moment, but he simply didn’t like what he saw.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You tell me, Connor. Are you two aware of that?”

The question hit him like a blunt punch to the chest. Connor felt disappointment settle in and spread so fast it seemed to run through his whole body. He felt irritation in every pore, because suddenly it felt like his boyfriend was doubting him, like his boyfriend was questioning the friendship he had with his best friend, as if he suddenly had to explain it, defend it, like it was something wrong. The sudden annoyance clouded his thoughts, and the words came out before he could think them through.

“At least Hudson and Kiley aren’t having a fucking stupid argument like this one.”

The moment he said it, he regretted it, because he knew he had gone too far. Not only for comparing the relationship he had with his boyfriend to the one Hudson had with his girlfriend, but because he had minimized something that was bothering François. He had looked him straight in the face and basically told him that what he was feeling right now was bullshit. So he wasn’t surprised when François slowly lifted his head. He didn’t look angry; he looked exhausted, and in a way that was much worse from Connor’s perspective.

“That’s what you think?” he asked calmly. “That this is stupid?”

Connor swallowed.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I wasn’t trying to—”

“But you said it,” François replied. “And that says a hell of a lot more than you realize.”

He straightened a little on the couch, setting his phone aside for the first time since he had sat down.

“You know what’s actually fucking stupid, Connor?” he continued. “Having to read every single day that I’m ‘the obstacle,’ ‘the extra one,’ ‘the one who doesn’t belong,’ ‘the one getting involved with someone way too young for me.’ Being compared to Hudson like I’m competing in some shit I never agreed to play.”

“That’s not my fault,” Connor replied, faster than he meant to. “I don’t control what people say on the internet.”

“No,” François admitted. “But you do control what you show, and especially what you reinforce. What you decide is worth protecting.”

Connor shook his head, frustrated.

“Hudson is my best friend. I’m not going to hide that like there’s something wrong with it.”

“I’m not asking you to hide it,” François said, his voice tightening for the first time. “I’m asking you to look at me and understand how it looks from this side.” He stood up from the couch and began pacing across the living room. “You two have your codes, your gestures, things you don’t explain because ‘there’s no need.’ You show up dressed the same, you understand each other with a glance, you’re always looking for each other. And then you ask me why a fucking matching bracelet bothers me.”

Connor opened his mouth to respond, but François wasn’t finished.

“You know what hurts me the most?” he added, stopping in front of him. “That when you’re not okay, when we fight, when something gets to you… you go to him. Always him.”

That hit harder than Connor expected.

“Because he’s my friend,” he said, lowering his voice. “Because he knows me.”

“Exactly,” François replied, almost in a whisper. “He knows you. And sometimes it feels like he knows you better than I do.”

Connor ran a hand over his face, leaving a red mark on his cheek from how rough he had been with his own skin.

“There’s nothing weird between Hudson and me,” he said firmly. “There never has been.”

François looked at him for several seconds. His breathing had changed, now noticeable in the movement of his chest, which had become uneven. Connor assumed he didn’t respond immediately because he was weighing his words.

“Maybe not,” he conceded. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t something there I can’t touch.”

Connor frowned.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“That there’s a place in your life,” François replied, “where I don’t get to be. And it doesn’t matter how much I try, you”—he said, pointing at him with his index finger—“you don’t let me in either.”

Connor felt like his soul dropped straight to the floor. He wanted to deny it, fix it, correct everything all at once, but those kinds of words simply didn’t come out. Instead he said:

“It’s not a competition,” he said. “You don’t have to beat anyone.”

“And yet I’m always the one who loses,” François replied, without raising his voice.

Connor took a step toward him.

“I don’t want to choose between you two,” he said. “I shouldn’t have to.”

François closed his eyes for a second.

“I don’t want to put you in that position either,” he said finally. “I just want to know that next time you decide to wear something that looks like a couple thing with someone else, you at least stop and think about how that might make me feel.”

Connor lowered his gaze. He didn’t have a good answer for that.

“I need some air,” François added. “And you… go see Hudson. Clearly today you need him more than you need me.”

Connor lifted his head immediately.

“That’s not—”

But François had already turned away.

The traffic light turned green and Connor kept driving. But now, every time he looked at the bracelet, guilt twisted in his chest. All it took was a slight turn of his wrist while shifting gears, or the sun reflecting off the white-gold plate, for the conversation with François to come rushing back, complete and uninvited.

Doesn’t that count as a couple’s thing?

Connor gripped the steering wheel a moment longer than necessary and then loosened his hand. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to give it a meaning it didn’t deserve. The bracelet was just that: a bracelet. A shared memory, a joke that had turned into a habit, something nice between friends. And yet he couldn’t ignore the way it made him feel.

There was something contradictory in the way that small weight on his wrist calmed him and, at the same time, made him uneasy. Because every time he thought about Hudson wearing one too, on his left wrist, probably without paying much attention to it, part of Connor felt strangely at home… and another part remembered François’s look, hurt, exhausted, asking him for something Connor wasn’t even sure he knew how to give.

He hadn’t done anything wrong, he told himself. He hadn’t crossed any line. But he also couldn’t say, with complete honesty, that he didn’t care. That he truly felt everything was fine. And maybe it was because François’s complaint, the soft and tired tone of his voice, the way he had looked at him, suggested there was something more to it. That it wasn’t just a bracelet between friends. But Connor thought it was fucking absurd to even consider it.

He glanced away from the road for a second and looked at the engraving again. Hollanov – Hudcon. He felt the immature urge to flip the plate downward, to hide it, as if that could silence the uncomfortable feeling tightening in his chest. But he didn’t. Instead, he let his hand fall back onto the steering wheel, leaving the bracelet fully visible.

Maybe it was just exhaustion. Maybe he was overthinking it because the argument had been so recent. Maybe everything would feel normal again in a few hours. And every trace of those intrusive thoughts would fade away.

Or at least, that’s what he hoped.

***

“Is everything okay?”

Hudson sent the message after several hours had passed since he’d said goodbye to Connor. He didn’t close the chat right away; he left it there, open, as if that might somehow shorten the distance between them. The possibility that Connor might be stuck in another argument with François worried him. That maybe he’d cut the conversation short just to keep his plans with him, and that when he got home they had picked it up again.

“I’m fine.”

The reply came as quickly as always, almost like an automatic response. Hudson let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. At least nothing serious had happened. At least Connor wasn’t buried in another endless argument… or at least that’s what he wanted to believe.

He thought about asking how things had gone with François. The question tingled at the tips of his fingers, insistent, waiting to be typed. But he didn’t write it. Connor always talked when he was ready, and Hudson had never pushed him. He wasn’t going to start now.

He stared at the chat for several seconds, his face completely expressionless, but somehow wishing another message would appear after that last reply. As if Connor would suddenly decide to tell him everything that had happened. But it didn’t.

“Should the four of us do something next weekend?”

The message slipped out before he could think about it too much. Maybe it wasn’t the best moment, or maybe it was exactly the opposite. For some reason, Hudson had this persistent feeling settled in his chest that Connor’s recent problems with his boyfriend had something to do with him. There was no concrete proof, no explicit gesture pointing to him, but the idea kept creeping into his thoughts and he couldn’t shake it off. And it was stupid. He knew it.

Hudson hadn’t done anything wrong. He hadn’t crossed any boundaries, he hadn’t gone after something that wasn’t his, he hadn’t interfered in someone else’s relationship. He had been exactly what he had always been: a friend. A good friend. The best friend. Present, attentive, maybe too available, but never inappropriate.

And yet, for some reason he couldn’t quite explain, he couldn’t help feeling guilty. As if his mere closeness were a problem. As if existing that close to Connor was enough to create tension with someone else.

He wondered how many times François had said his name during an argument. How many times Connor had had to explain it, justify it, tone it down—something that felt completely natural to Hudson. He thought about the looks, the uncomfortable silences, the questions no one asked out loud. Because maybe, without meaning to, he was the point of friction. And the mere idea tightened his stomach.

The answer didn’t come as quickly as the previous one, so Hudson set the phone down on the table, though he couldn’t stop glancing at it from the corner of his eye. The typing bubbles appeared almost immediately, then disappeared. Then they appeared again, only to vanish once more.

Hudson felt an uncomfortable pressure in his chest. He knew that pattern far too well. Connor writing an honest response, realizing he couldn’t send it, searching for a more neutral way to say it just to delete it again. Until he finally found a way to answer without really answering.

Several seconds passed like that—or maybe a minute. Maybe less. He didn’t know, but it felt endless. Until finally, the message came.

“I’ll confirm later.”

Nothing else.

Hudson frowned without realizing it. It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t a yes either. And it wasn’t like Connor had him used to saying yes to everything; on the contrary, they had always had healthy boundaries. They knew how to say no when something didn’t appeal to them, when they were tired, or when they simply didn’t feel like doing something. The trust between them had always been solid enough for that.

Maybe he was overthinking it. That was the most logical explanation. The most reasonable one. Thinking that he could be the source of conflict in his best friend’s relationship was, at best, exaggerated; at worst, pretty damn egocentric. Hudson wasn’t the center of anyone’s problems. There was no reason for him to be.

And yet Connor’s reply had felt different. Not because of what it said, but because of what it avoided. Because of how carefully neutral it was. Because never, in all the time they had been friends, had such an ambiguous answer come up when making plans together. For that kind of plan, the answer had always been: of course.

Hudson leaned back against the sofa and let the phone rest on his lap. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. But the feeling lingered, growing more uncomfortable with every passing second.

“Sure,” he replied quickly, just so he wouldn’t leave it on read. “Whenever you want.”

He locked the phone and stared at the dark screen. He tried to convince himself it didn’t mean anything. Connor was tired. He had things on his mind. That was normal.

Hudson and François had always gotten along well. He could honestly say they still did. François was pretty well integrated into his life, partly because he was Connor’s boyfriend, but also because he had made an effort to fit in. He and his girlfriend had gone on double dates with them more than once—quiet dinners, simple plans, trips. François had even been particularly understanding about Hudson’s need for discretion, recognizing that he didn’t want to expose his partner, who wasn’t a public figure, to unnecessary attention or comments.

In the same way, Connor and François kept their relationship secret. Not just to avoid the constant noise of social media or speculation, but because the company had been clear from the beginning. They were about to start filming the second season, and François would even have his own miniseries developing Scott and Kip’s storyline. Any public romantic relationship could turn into a problem.

They couldn’t forbid them, they had been told. But they couldn’t allow them to be visible either. The risk of a badly handled breakup, awkward headlines, or criticism pulling attention away from the show was something the production wasn’t willing to deal with. Hudson understood that logic, even if he didn’t always agree with it.

Still, he knew—as everyone did—that no matter how discreet they tried to be, some things were impossible to hide completely. A good part of the staff suspected it. It was hard not to when Connor and François practically lived together, when they shared routines, when they moved like a couple even in silence.

Hudson sighed, resting the phone against his thigh while he waited for a reply, though in a way it wasn’t really necessary.

“Something wrong?” Kiley walked into the living room with a bowl of popcorn and two sugar-free drinks. “You look a little tense.”

Hudson snapped out of his thoughts so abruptly that telling his girlfriend everything was fine would have been too obvious a lie, even for him.

“No… it’s Connor,” he muttered, not quite sure how to continue.

Kiley set the things down on the coffee table and sat beside him on the couch, turning toward him with genuine attention.

“Did something happen?”

Hudson hesitated. He ran a hand over his face, as if that gesture might help him sort out his thoughts.

“Can I ask you something?” he said finally.

She nodded without interrupting him.

“Does it bother you, the amount of time he and I spend together?”

Kiley didn’t answer right away. She thought carefully about her response, and that small silence was enough to make Hudson’s stomach tighten.

“Not really…” she began, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced. “I mean, when Connor’s in Los Angeles, it’s normal that when he visits—or when you go there—you spend time together, but…” she looked down, a little uncomfortable. “He’s been in Vancouver for months now, and since then I think you and I have only had a date alone… what?… twice?”

Hudson frowned.

“I’m not following,” he said, genuinely confused. In his mind, they had gone out many more times than that.

“Our plans as a couple,” she clarified gently, “have mostly turned into double dates or outings with friends. And Connor’s at almost all of them. But you and me, alone… hardly ever.”

“Yeah, but…” Hudson didn’t realize he was getting defensive until the words were already out. “I’ve had a fucking awful schedule, Kiley. I haven’t had time for anything.”

“But you did have time to go buy a bracelet with him?” she asked with a small smile. It wasn’t accusatory or bitter. She was just being honest.

That was what hurt Hudson the most. That it didn’t sound like a complaint. Kiley wasn’t upset that Hudson spent time with his best friend. She never had been. But she was starting to wonder if the two of them—Hudson and Connor—were having a harder time than they admitted letting go of the invisible thread that tied them together.

Kiley and Hudson had been together since high school. They had moved in together three years ago. They had adopted a cat named Gizmo. They had survived changes, moves, uncertainties, careers that had taken off way too fast. Their relationship was built on something solid and resilient. So solid that jealousy had never come naturally to Kiley.

Until now.

Because this wasn’t a normal situation. It was the first time she had to deal with a situation where millions of people were watching her boyfriend, where his name appeared in comments, theories, and constant speculation, always tied to Connor’s. Where her relationship existed, yes—but on the margins. In silence.

“I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong,” Kiley added, looking at him. “I just think that… maybe without meaning to, we’ve stopped taking care of each other as much.”

Hudson swallowed. For the first time that night, the discomfort he’d been carrying for hours finally settled somewhere. Because Kiley wasn’t wrong. And because, deep down, he already knew something had shifted out of balance.

“Oh, God…” Hudson dragged a hand roughly over his face before turning toward Kiley and taking her hand. “I’m really sorry. I mean it. I didn’t realize I’d been acting like an idiot.”

“You’re not,” she replied without hesitation. She brushed his cheek and placed a quick kiss on his lips. “And I hadn’t said anything about it either, so how were you supposed to know?” She smiled softly.

Hudson pulled her into a hug, resting his chin on top of her head, as if that gesture could somehow restore the balance he had felt slipping.

“Is something going on with Connor?” Kiley asked against his chest when she realized her original question was still hanging in the air.

Hudson slid his fingers through her hair in a slow, thoughtful motion. He hesitated. He didn’t want the little time they were finally sharing to turn into a conversation about Connor. But he also didn’t want to ignore the genuine concern in her voice.

“I saw him today… and he seemed off,” he admitted at last. “Like he’d been…” he paused, searching for the words. “Crying.”

“Oh.” Kiley pulled back a little to look at him. “He’s pretty sensitive…”

“Yeah, but…” Hudson sighed. “I think he’s been arguing with François. And I think it might be because of me.”

Kiley pulled away completely, frowning.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Hudson said honestly. “It’s just speculation. Shit that gets stuck in my head sometimes. Maybe it’s because of this.” He lifted his wrist, showing the burgundy bracelet. “Do you think it’s too much?”

Kiley studied the bracelet for a second before letting out a soft laugh.

“You two have a matching tattoo,” she joked. “What difference does a bracelet make?” She shrugged. “Maybe François just doesn’t get it.”

“Maybe,” Hudson murmured, though he didn’t sound convinced.

The phone vibrated on the couch. Hudson shifted to pick it up.

Connor: FaceTime?

His stomach tightened immediately. He wanted to get up, go to the bedroom, answer it. He wanted to do it without thinking. But the moment—the weight of the conversation they had just had—kept him sitting on the couch.

“Connor?” Kiley asked, reading his expression far too easily.

“No,” Hudson replied too quickly. “It’s fine.”

She gave him an indulgent look. The kind that made it pretty damn clear she knew it was Connor and that she knew Hudson wasn’t really fine by ignoring him.

“You can answer it.”

Hudson hesitated for barely a second. Just one. Then, as if he had only been waiting for Kiley to “give him permission,” he call him. When Kiley started to stand up to leave him alone, he caught her hand and made her stay. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his chest.

Maybe it was ridiculous. Kiley hadn’t asked him for anything other than time. She didn’t need him to prove her place in anything. And yet Hudson felt the gesture was necessary. As if it could reassure her. As if it could reassure himself.

Connor’s face appeared on the screen. He had that wide, bright smile, as if that morning he hadn’t looked hurt by something Hudson didn’t fully understand.

“Huddy,” he greeted, grinning widely.

“My baby,” Hudson replied without thinking.

Connor’s eyes shifted then toward Kiley, leaning against Hudson’s chest, the two of them sprawled comfortably on the couch. Something in his smile flickered, almost imperceptibly, replaced by an awkward little grimace.

“Oh…” he said quickly. “Sorry. I’m interrupting. Hi, Kiley.”

“Hi, Connor,” she replied with a kind smile.

“I didn’t think… I mean…” Connor scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “We can talk later, okay?”

Right then Hudson couldn’t help feeling uneasy, maybe even a little panicked, and suddenly regretting that he hadn’t taken the call alone. Because they had seen each other earlier that day. Connor didn’t ask for a video call for no reason. Not like this. And not at that hour.

Was he being a fucking idiot by making it so obvious he was busy with his girlfriend?

No. He immediately told himself no. He needed to rethink his boundaries. Be fair. Connor could wait. They’d talk tomorrow. Besides… he looked fine. At least on the screen.

“Sure,” Hudson said, forcing a smile. “Get some rest.”

Connor nodded and ended the call.

Hudson stared at the phone’s black screen for a second longer than necessary. Something didn’t feel right. But he chose to ignore it. Because tonight, he told himself, he was trying to do the right thing. Even if he couldn’t shake the persistent feeling that, without meaning to, he had just let someone down.

Chapter End Notes

If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much. This is going to be a bit long, but I hope you enjoy it and stick around <3

Chapter 2: A Package Deal

Chapter Notes

English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes :)

It was eight at night, and François hadn’t come home.

Connor knew because he’d checked the clock at least six times in the last twenty minutes, as if every glance might make François show up. The condo was dim, barely lit by the warm glow from the kitchen and the bluish light of the city slipping in through the windows. Everything was just as they’d left it that morning. Even the glass of water Connor hadn’t finished before meeting Hudson was still sitting on the kitchen counter. The place was too quiet— it had always been like that, but without François there, the silence just felt suffocating.

Connor’s flight back to Los Angeles was scheduled for three days from now. He’d be in LA for a month, time he’d set aside for himself to visit his sister, Bailey, to see his friends, to try to feel like a normal person before getting swallowed again by the grind of filming the second season.

He and François had agreed that François would come see him in about a week—maybe a little longer—and then they’d head back together for the start of filming. They’d talked it through calmly, like it was just another domestic plan. But back then, nothing had seemed off. Now, though, Connor didn’t know if that morning’s argument had actually changed something between them. He had no fucking idea if their plan to meet in LA was still happening, didn’t know if his boyfriend would stay pissed for a day or two, or if maybe he’d just decide it was better for each of them to go their own way. François had looked pretty hurt that morning, and Connor—on top of that—had been a complete asshole to him.

He dragged a hand over his face and let out a slow breath. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. They’d been together for a year and a half. A year and a half of shared routines, nights together, future plans. The argument had felt unreal, like it had happened in some parallel dimension. He couldn’t believe something like that could put what they’d built at risk. Because he and François were serious.

They weren’t ready to go public—that much was true. But they’d never treated their relationship like something temporary or fragile. They’d been careful, yeah, even strategic. Especially since the first season had come out and everything had gotten way too big, way too fast. They couldn’t go public while that many eyes were still on them. Not while they were actively working on new seasons.

Up until then, François himself had been the first one to talk about boundaries. About being careful with what they posted and avoiding anything that might draw attention. Connor had never questioned it. He got it. He’d learned fast that exposure wasn’t what would validate their relationship—if anything, the more they put it out there, the more likely everything would go to shit.

He remembered, with a suffocating kind of discomfort, those first pictures he’d posted with François after the premiere. They’d seemed innocent at the time. They were both sitting at a table in a gastrobar, dim lighting, both holding champagne glasses. At first glance, it looked like any other moment with a friend. But the chaos that followed was fucking insane. Invasive comments, theories about them being in a romantic relationship, hate disguised as concern, comments about the age gap between them. And the ones that never stopped to this day: constant comparisons to Hudson.

Then, when they were sent to promote the show together—a decision that, in part, Hudson and Connor himself had pushed for—everything got more complicated. They’d decided to split up—Hudson and him—each working actively on their own, trying to keep HudCon from turning into an official brand or something exploitable. And even that hadn’t been enough. The attacks on François got worse. Connor still remembered the way his boyfriend would show him his phone without saying anything first, lips pressed tight, like he didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him fall apart. Back then, Connor had really thought that was going to be the end of everything.

He’d felt fear, guilt, and a desperate need to protect something he didn’t even know how to defend publicly without destroying it in the process. Because trying to defend his boyfriend publicly could turn into a confession—and if it wasn’t taken as one, it would just fuel everything people were throwing at François even more. Connor had stayed quiet back then, especially since his boyfriend had agreed it was the best option.

Hadn’t all of that been harder? Hadn’t that hurt more? Wasn’t that way more complicated than sharing a bracelet with his best friend?

Connor let himself drop onto the couch, sinking into the cushions. His phone rested in his right hand, the black screen faintly reflecting his tired face. He didn’t want to unlock it, didn’t want to see if there were new messages. He also didn’t want to confirm that there weren’t.

Without thinking, Connor turned his wrist and looked at the bracelet again. The burgundy color contrasted with his pale skin while the white gold plate caught the kitchen light for a second. He liked that bracelet so much, and he was happy to wear it, but he couldn’t stop feeling conflicted about wearing it. Especially in the space he shared with his boyfriend.

Still, Connor thought taking it off would, in a way, be a bad idea. Because it was just a bracelet—taking it off would mean admitting François was right. And it wasn’t about wanting to win, no. He just wanted to prove that it didn’t mean anything negative for their relationship. Connor knew his boyfriend would probably get mad, because even after expressing how uncomfortable he felt about it, Connor had gone ahead and bought it anyway. At the same time, he thought that if he and François didn’t wear matching stuff, it was only because François himself had suggested that. It hadn’t been Connor.

He let out a long sigh and sank deeper into the cushions. The idea that François might need time was pounding against his temples. Connor wasn’t thinking about ending the relationship. Not at all. That’s why imagining that maybe those were François’ plans made his chest tighten, a hard, bitter knot forming just under his sternum. He didn’t want to lose him, didn’t want everything to fall apart over something that, in his head, still didn’t seem like such a big deal.

Maybe they needed to talk. Connor thought it then, not entirely sure if his thoughts were aimed at Hudson or François. He could try to explain to his boyfriend why feeling insecure about his best friend made no fucking sense. But maybe it’d be easier to explain the situation to Hudson instead. Maybe he’d understand if Connor took the bracelet off for a while. If he explained that François’ insecurity hadn’t come out of nowhere, but from a bunch of shit that had been building up for months: the hate online, the constant exposure, the way people analyzed every gesture like it was some kind of clue. That the insecurity also came from everything they’d been through, everything they’d had to put up with in silence. Hudson would get it. Connor was sure of that.

After all, Hudson was the most empathetic and honest person he knew. If he agreed, he’d say it. And if he didn’t, he’d say that too. His best friend was the kind of guy who says exactly what’s on his mind, who knows when to use a filter to soften his words and when not to. But Hudson was always straightforward. And he’d never lied just to keep the peace, never pretended to understand something he didn’t. That was one of the reasons Connor trusted him so much.

And still, something held him back. Because he didn’t want to be an idiot who put a relationship over a friendship. But he also didn’t want to rank the people he loved, like one had to matter more than the other for everything to make sense. He didn’t want to choose, and he didn’t have to.

He glanced at the clock. It was a little past eight.

He didn’t dare call him directly, because he didn’t know if Hudson was busy, if he was with Kiley, or if he was simply having a quiet night that Connor had no right to interrupt with his emotional chaos. So he chose to send a message first, something brief, something that wouldn’t bother him too much or interrupt him if he was in the middle of something.

He hoped he wouldn’t bother him. But he knew he needed to talk. Now.

Connor had never been good at writing long text messages. He struggled to organize his ideas in writing, because he didn’t know exactly what words to use, didn’t know if he could express himself better in words than in a call, and he didn’t like rereading everything he’d written to make sure nothing was left out. So at some point in his life, he decided that the best option for him would always be to call. He didn’t like sending too many voice notes either—he did it, but he preferred real-time conversations, especially over FaceTime. Because that way, he could see the other person’s face, he could tell if what he was saying was stupid or made sense, he could tell if he was making things uncomfortable or if he was on the right track. Besides, ideas always slipped through the cracks, and in a call it’s much easier to remember them.

This time he chose to send a message, but that message was precisely to ask for what made him feel most comfortable: a video call.

He also needed to make sure Hudson was available to talk, because he knew it wouldn’t be a conversation that lasted just a couple of minutes. Connor would first have to tell him what had happened that morning with François. And then, inevitably, get to the bracelet. But in a way, he was terrified. He didn’t want to disappoint Hudson.

Talking about the argument meant admitting that he and his boyfriend had been arguing a lot lately. Something Hudson was already very aware of, even if Connor kept ignoring it on purpose. But in a way, Connor was afraid of having to put into words something he had tried to keep in the background until that day. Because besides accepting that his relationship was faltering, talking about it with his friend also meant, in a way, telling him that he had been at the center of those arguments. Why should he even make Hudson uncomfortable with that information?

Connor picked up his phone with slightly trembling hands and typed before he could regret it:

"Facetime?"

As soon as he sent the message, he left the phone on the table, as if that would keep him from looking at it. He stood up, paced around the condo, stopped, went back to where he had left the phone, and picked it up again.

The reply came a couple of minutes later. But Hudson hadn’t answered the message; instead, he was video calling him. Connor felt his heart jump from his chest to his throat, choking him, almost making it hard to breathe.

He answered almost by reflex, and the image appeared immediately. Hudson was on the couch, with one arm around Kiley’s shoulders and her leaning against his chest. Both of them sprawled comfortably on the couch in the condo they shared, the one right in front of the window.

A sinking feeling hit his stomach. Damn it. He felt terrible, but he didn’t know exactly why. Maybe it was because he felt like he was intruding on their time as a couple just to drag Hudson into his own emotional mess. And only to talk to him about problems that weren’t his. To ask him, once again, to ground him, to help him.

François was right. Maybe Connor wasn’t being very consistent with his actions and his idea of what a friendship is. Because yes, he is Hudson’s best friend, but that doesn’t give him the right to interrupt like this in their private moments and make things uncomfortable for him or his girlfriend. The guilt hit him all at once, so strongly that his eyes burned.

"Oh…" he muttered, forcing a smile. "I’m sorry. I didn’t think…" he swallowed and scratched his neck, feeling uncomfortable. "We’ll talk later, okay?"

The words came out clumsy and rushed from his mouth, as if they were desperately trying to get out. But when Hudson didn’t stop him, when he didn’t insist on continuing the conversation and said yes, that they would talk later, Connor felt the slight tremor in his legs, and it was almost impossible to ignore the violent pounding of his own heart against his chest. Connor ended the call and stayed staring at the black screen of his phone. He waited. But he didn’t know exactly what he was waiting for. Maybe for Hudson to call him back after a few seconds or maybe a couple of minutes; maybe he expected his best friend to understand, without Connor having to say it, that it was important, that he needed him. That Connor wouldn’t be calling him out of nowhere if it wasn’t important. But at the same time, Connor told himself that it wasn’t. It’s not that important, it’s not life or death. Nothing will happen if that conversation is delayed for a couple more days.

Connor sat down on the same couch he had been sprawled on before. He dropped his elbows onto his knees and buried his face in his hands, letting a long and loud sigh escape from his mouth, easing some of the heaviness in his chest.

After a few minutes, the sound of keys in the door lock made him tense. He lifted his head and turned toward the door. François walked in without saying anything, without looking at him even once, leaving his coat on the chair and his shoes near the door. He moved gracefully, so much so that Connor could barely hear his footsteps against the floor, as if he didn’t want to make noise or as if he wasn’t sure he was welcome.

"Hey," Connor said finally, his voice softer than he had initially intended.

François looked up. His eyes were tired, not red, but dull.

"Hey."

There was a brief silence between them, in which they simply held each other’s gaze. Connor stood up and walked toward him.

"I thought…" he began, but stopped. "I was worried."

François barely nodded. And Connor knew that he understood that he meant everything. He had been worried because he hadn’t come home, and he had been worried about the current state of their relationship.

"I know."

They didn’t move closer. Even though Connor had taken the first step toward him, François didn’t move. And that physical distance, which in turn became an emotional one, hurt Connor far more than any other argument they had had that day.

"I didn’t want things to end like this this morning," Connor said. "I didn’t want to hurt you."

François looked at him for a long moment, as if weighing whether it was a good idea to respond to that or not.

"I know you didn’t," he said at last. "Don’t worry."

Connor felt something tighten in his chest, because even though François was telling him not to worry, the look on his face—and the lack of warmth in his voice—said the exact opposite.

"I don’t want to lose you," Connor said bluntly.

François lowered his gaze for a second before answering.

"I don’t want to lose myself either."

And there it was. That was probably what Connor had feared the most that whole time while waiting for him to come back. He didn’t expect François to just forget what had happened, just like he knew he wouldn’t forgive him easily for invalidating his feelings; but realizing that it wasn’t enough to simply tell him he was afraid of losing him scared him a little. That’s why he understood why his boyfriend wasn’t giving in so easily to his exposed emotions.

Connor didn’t know what to say. He brought his hands together and played with the edge of the bracelet, turning it without realizing it. François followed the movement with his eyes.

"Did he say anything?" he asked, pointing at his wrist.

Connor wasn’t sure what exactly François meant… or maybe he was. He wondered if Hudson had questioned them wearing something matching at any point, or if maybe Hudson had wondered whether François had agreed to it; he wondered if he had even talked about it with his girlfriend at all. Or maybe he meant the fact that he had shown up late. François probably knew Connor had stayed longer in the condo after the argument, and maybe he had made Hudson wait and he had noticed something was off.

Fuck, Connor could think of a lot of things that question could cover, but he wasn’t sure. Still, they all led to the same place. He could read every doubt on his boyfriend’s face, could see he was still hurt—and even more so after confirming that, in the end, Connor had actually bought that bracelet.

"No," he finally said, his hand unconsciously covering the bracelet completely. "Hudson doesn’t…" he paused for a second before finishing. "Hudson doesn’t do that kind of thing."

Connor meant that Hudson wasn’t the type to force things or pressure him into talking, that he had probably talked it through with Kiley just like Connor had tried to do with him, that even if Hudson had probably been annoyed because he was late, he hadn’t really gotten mad once he realized something had happened. Hudson didn’t do things that would make Connor uncomfortable—he just didn’t.

"I know," François said. "I’m not saying he does anything wrong."

Connor looked at him, a mix of surprise and confusion.

"Then what are we doing?"

François sighed. Before answering, he rubbed his face with one hand and then dragged it from his forehead to the back of his hair.

"Trying not to break," he said honestly. "Even if we don’t always know how."

Connor felt his chest sink. Every time they had an argument—especially in the last seven months—he couldn’t help but think it would be the end of everything.

"I don’t want you to feel like you have to compete," he said finally. "I really don’t."

"I’m not competing," François replied softly. "Let’s just say it has more to do with stepping back."

François said it so calmly that Connor didn’t quite understand—or know how to interpret—what he meant. He frowned slightly and tilted his head in confusion.

"What does that mean?"

François looked him in the eyes and held his gaze for the first time since he had walked into the condo.

"It means that if there’s a place where I’m always going to come second, I’d rather not fight for it."

Connor felt a knot form in his throat.

"There are no first or second places here, Fran," he said. "They’re different places."

"Maybe for you," François replied. "For me, sometimes it feels the same."

"You…" Connor took in so much air it burned his chest. "I can throw this fucking bracelet away if that’s the problem, I don’t care."

The words came out rushed, so much so that he wasn’t sure if François even caught what he meant. But at the same time, it was a kind of plea, like offering that as an immediate solution could fix what had been cracking between them for weeks.

Then François smiled. It wasn’t a sarcastic smile, not even one that showed annoyance. It was exhaustion—and to Connor, that was much worse than anything else, because François looked like someone who had already explained the same thing too many times and was realizing the other person still didn’t get it. Connor’s stomach dropped instantly. He didn’t need François to say anything to understand that the problem had never been the bracelet itself. And that was probably what unsettled him the most: realizing that even now, he was offering the wrong solution.

"It’s not about that," François said at last, his voice low, trying to keep his discomfort in check. "And it hurts that it’s so hard for you to see that."

Connor swallowed, and for a second he thought he might choke, because his throat felt tight, like the air had suddenly turned solid and gotten stuck halfway down. They had been arguing often—too often. Throughout their entire time in Vancouver, actually. Small arguments at first, almost insignificant, that later escalated and left them not speaking to each other for hours, sometimes even a whole day. In one of those fights—a particularly exhausting early morning—Connor had even thought, with a knot in his chest, that maybe it was impossible to imagine a future living together. Not because they didn’t love each other, but because he didn’t know how to live with that constant friction, with the feeling that he always had to walk on eggshells whenever they talked about something, because everything could turn into an argument.

And now, stopping for a second, going over every single damn argument honestly, the pattern became uncomfortably clear: Hudson.

It hadn’t always been explicit. Sometimes it was a random comment, the kind Connor always read as passive-aggressive; other times it was a question coming from curiosity but with an answer he didn’t like, and sometimes it had just come up in the middle of casual conversations, after reading something online or seeing one of those videos fans usually made about them. The starting point of those arguments had been different every time, but Hudson was always there, like an invisible third point in all their fights. It was as if François had some kind of Hudson-shaped ghost living in his head, because Connor couldn’t remember a single argument in the past few months where his name hadn’t come up at some point.

Connor lowered his gaze, feeling a mix of guilt and confusion. He had never meant to put them in competition. He had never thought that loving one meant taking space away from the other. But maybe, without realizing it, he had let Hudson become the anchor he always went back to… even when that left François feeling like he was on the outside. And the scariest part wasn’t admitting it. The scariest part was not knowing how to fix it without losing something along the way.

François exhaled slowly through his nose, like he was counting to ten to keep himself from losing his composure.

"See?" he said at last, his voice so calm that for a moment Connor doubted he was actually upset. "That’s exactly what I mean."

Connor looked up, confused.

"What do you mean?"

"That you always reduce everything to an object," François continued. "To a picture, a bracelet, something you can just take off and be done with. Like the problem is aesthetic. Like it’s not deeper than that."

He paused briefly, but not to give Connor space. It was to organize his thoughts and keep going.

"It doesn’t hurt that you bought that bracelet," he said, more firmly this time. "It hurts that when something goes wrong between us, your first instinct is to run to him. It hurts that I have to wonder whether I’m arguing with you or competing with Hudson for your attention."

Connor opened his mouth to say something, but François raised a hand, cutting him off.

"No, let me finish." His voice wasn’t shaking anymore; now Connor could tell he was upset. "Because every time I try to tell you this, you answer with ‘it’s not like that’ or you make it sound like I’m somehow exaggerating, like it’s all in my head. Actually…" He looked him straight in the eyes. "Give me your phone."

François said it like he had just asked for a glass of water, not like he was crossing a boundary and invading his privacy. His voice was calm, like what he had just asked was normal. Connor blinked, taking a second to process it.

"What?"

"Your phone," François repeated, holding out his hand. "Give it to me."

"No," Connor answered almost immediately, his body tensing up. "That’s too much."

François let out a breath and rolled his eyes.

"See?" he said. "That’s exactly what I mean."

"François, you can’t ask me that." Connor took a step back. "I’m not giving you my phone so you can go through it."

"I don’t want to go through it," he shot back, and for the first time his voice cracked. "I want to prove something to you."

Connor looked at him, confused, because he genuinely couldn’t understand what he was trying to do. That’s why he was on the defensive—no matter how much François tried to explain it, Connor didn’t think there was any way to justify asking for something like that.

"What do you want to prove?"

François let his arm drop when he realized Connor wasn’t going to hand over the phone, but he didn’t look away.

"That it doesn’t matter how much you say you’re worried about me, that it doesn’t matter if you suddenly tell me this argument hurts you, that all of this affects you in ways I can’t even imagine…" he swallowed. "Your first instinct is always him."

Connor shook his head, his mouth parting slightly—not to speak, but out of shock. He didn’t understand how the conclusion, once again, came back to the same person. And this time, just like the others, he couldn’t find the connection.

"That’s not true." His voice came out barely above a whisper, his surprise obvious.

"Isn’t it?" François stepped forward. "Then give me the phone."

"I’m not doing that," Connor snapped.

"Why not?" François asked, his voice so soft it sent a chill down Connor’s spine, because he knew he wasn’t actually calm—he was angry, and Connor could feel it in the way his tone hit his ears. "If there’s nothing to prove, then it shouldn’t be a problem, right?"

"Because it’s invasive," Connor replied, not bothering to hide his irritation. "Because it’s not healthy and, damn it, it’s not fair."

"Fair?" François repeated, incredulous. "You know what’s not fair? Feeling like shit after fighting with you and still wondering whether I should call you or not… while you, even if you say you’re wrecked, apparently only thought about going to him instead of asking me to talk." Connor opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. "Look at me," François insisted. "We fought today. We had a serious argument, and I’m sure that, just like you told me once, you thought about how something like this could destroy our relationship, am I wrong?" Connor nodded slowly. "You said you didn’t want things to end like this this morning, that you didn’t want to hurt me." Connor nodded again. "And still…" François’s voice dropped. "You didn’t call me after. You didn’t try to fix it. You didn’t bring it up again." Connor felt his stomach tighten. "But I know," François continued, his voice lower than usual, "that if I grab that fucking phone right now, I’m going to find missed calls, messages, and FaceTime attempts—but none of them for me. Every single one of those damn attempts will be directed at Hudson."

Connor clenched his jaw.

"That’s not true."

"Isn’t it?" François looked at him with a mix of sadness and exhaustion. "Because I was worried about you. I did think about calling you. All the time. I was pacing back and forth with my phone in my hand, thinking about what was right, what I was supposed to do."

They both fell silent, and it was suffocating. It felt like they both had so much to say, but neither of them dared to say it. Connor tried to think of the best way to reach him, to make him understand that things weren’t the way he was imagining—but before he could say anything, François kept going.

"And still," François said, "despite feeling the way you say you felt, despite looking me in the face and telling me I’m wrong and that this isn’t about Hudson; despite the fact that I was going crazy trying to make peace with you, even though I wasn’t the one who messed up…" He shrugged, making a small grimace. "You didn’t call me."

Connor felt something crack inside him.

"I didn’t," he admitted quietly.

François closed his eyes for a second, because he already knew. Of course he did—he hadn’t received a single call or text. But maybe, deep down, he had hoped something had happened that kept him from doing it. But that wasn’t the case.

"That’s the point," he said at last. "I don’t need to go through your phone. What I need to know is why, even when you say you care about me, I’m the second option." He stepped back, shaking his head. "And no, Connor," he added, without looking at him. "The problem isn’t that you talk to Hudson. The problem is that when everything falls apart, he’s the one you rebuild yourself with, and I’m left watching from the outside." There was another silence, longer than the last, but just as heavy. "And before you say anything," he added, "no, I don’t hate Hudson. It’s not personal against him. It’s personal with you. Because I’m the one who’s left waiting for you to finish choosing." Connor said nothing, but he felt a dull punch in his chest. "I’ve never asked you to stop seeing him," François continued. "I’ve never asked you to break that friendship. The only thing I’ve asked is that you give me a place as your boyfriend, and even that doesn’t seem possible when things get hard. Fuck, we’ve been together for a year and a half." He ran a hand over his face, exhausted. "So no," François concluded. "Don’t throw the bracelet away. That’s not going to fix anything."

He finally looked up and met Connor’s eyes. His gaze was direct and cold. "What I need to know is whether, when things get complicated, you and I are still a ‘we’… or if I’m just the one filling the space Hudson can’t."

Connor took the words like a hit straight to the gut, like someone had punched him right in the sternum—he even felt the air leave his lungs.

"Wha—what?" he stammered. "What the fuck are you talking about?" He shook his head, incredulous. "You’re twisting everything, you’re saying it like you’re some kind of replacement for him, and that’s not what this is." His voice cracked, betraying him. "I love you. You. I’m with you, can’t you—"

"No," François cut him off, this time firm. "I can’t accept that." Connor fell silent, because he didn’t know what to say. "Because you’ve spent every single fucking second of these past few months making me understand that I’m the place you go back to when he’s not available," he continued. "The body that shares your bed, the one that waits for you at home—but not the one that lives in your head when something breaks."

"That’s not true," Connor said, though it sounded more like a plea than a statement.

"Isn’t it?" François let out a short, humorless laugh. "Then tell me why, when we argue, you shut down completely; why you don’t call me afterward to try to fix things; why it feels like you don’t even bother to come find me and talk to me; why everything that weighs on you ends up orbiting around Hudson."

Connor clenched his fists. He could feel his arms shaking, his throat tightening with sudden anger.

"Because he’s my best friend," he said through his teeth.

"And I’m your boyfriend," François replied without raising his voice. "But when you’re tired, when you’re scared, when you start to doubt… you don’t choose me."

Silence fell between them again, more unbearable than before.

"I’m not saying you don’t love me," he added, quieter. "I’m saying I’m not the place where your heart comes to rest."

Connor swallowed. His throat felt tight, like anything he said would break something else.

"That’s not fair…"

"Maybe it’s not," François admitted, looking at him with a mix of exhaustion and pain. "But it’s my truth, and Connor, the truth is it hurts like hell to love someone who’s always looking somewhere else."

François grabbed the car keys he had left earlier on the coffee table. The metallic sound rang in Connor’s ears, sharp against the suffocating silence. François thought—bitterly—that staying home that night wasn’t a good idea, even if it was his home. He could go to a hotel, or maybe to Sophie’s. He needed space, some air, but more than anything, he needed to be away from Connor that night.

He didn’t want to kick Connor out, didn’t want to turn this into something even more cruel. What had already been said was enough, and he was too fucking tired of carrying all that built-up shit. Connor noticed the movement right away and reacted almost on instinct. He reached him in two steps and grabbed his hand, holding on like letting go would mean accepting something he wasn’t ready to face.

"No… don’t leave like this," he said, his voice breaking, dangerously close to begging. "Let’s fix this. I… I can—"

François closed his eyes for a second. Seeing him like that crushed his chest. Maybe it had been a mistake to stay quiet for so long and then let everything out at once, like a wound that had been festering for months from the inside. He loved Connor—he had loved him from the start—but he didn’t know how to keep holding on to a relationship that made him feel invisible.

He took Connor’s hand carefully, like he was afraid that any sudden movement might destroy whatever was left between them. Then he cupped Connor’s face with both hands and, with his thumbs, wiped away the tears that had slipped out despite all his efforts to hold them back. François knew Connor hated crying like that, in the middle of an argument, because it made him feel exposed. And he knew that right now he was crying out of frustration, out of everything his boyfriend’s words had dragged to the surface.

"Hey…" he murmured, with a tenderness that hurt. "Don’t cry."

He leaned in slightly and pressed a short, soft kiss to his lips. It was a goodbye for the night, but not a final one—though it wasn’t a kiss that carried any kind of promise either. He just hoped that kiss could say everything he hadn’t managed to say, because he was overwhelmed, because he was pissed, and because he didn’t want to talk anymore.

"I don’t want to lose you either," he said at last, answering what Connor had said at the beginning of the conversation. "But right now I can’t stay."

He rested his forehead against Connor’s for a moment. "Get some rest. Let’s give each other space tonight, okay?"

Connor nodded, even though he wasn’t sure what that space actually meant. François let go of his face gently, picked up the condo keys, and walked toward the door without looking back. The door closed.

Connor stood there in the middle of the living room, with the silence crashing down on him, heavy and suffocating. And the bracelet on his wrist suddenly felt heavier.

***

Hudson had spent two whole days going over the same question in his head: should he text François or not?

Connor hadn’t replied to any of his messages, and his flight back to Los Angeles was leaving the next day. This wasn’t like him. Not without a joke first, not without some dumb, clumsy excuse, not without that “sorry, I’m fucking wiped” that always came late—but it came.

The worry sat heavy in his chest, like an actual physical weight pressing down on him, so much so that even swallowing felt uncomfortable. He was worried about Connor, especially because they hadn’t spoken since the failed video call.

He didn’t want to just show up unannounced at François’s place, didn’t want to step into something that wasn’t his. He knew that no matter how close he was to Connor, there were lines he wasn’t supposed to cross. Still, everything kept leading him back to the same point: texting François seemed like the most logical option. But also the riskiest.

Because what the hell was he even supposed to say? Hey, your boyfriend isn’t answering me and I’m worried. That sounded way too fucking personal, and he wasn’t sure François would even understand why it mattered that Connor hadn’t replied. Hudson couldn’t fully understand his own urgency either—or maybe he could. The point was, he didn’t know how to explain any of that to his friend’s boyfriend.

He drove down the avenue, hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. Traffic was slow, and every red light was an involuntary invitation to overthink. That morning, he had said goodbye to Kiley before she left for work, still tasting her coffee on his lips and with an empty stomach. He hadn’t had breakfast—he hadn’t been hungry at first, and then he had spent all the time he had thinking about what to do that night, because he had basically promised Kiley they’d do something together, just the two of them. And clearly, even though he had spent all his breakfast time thinking about what could be a good plan, Hudson had no idea what or how he was going to fit it into a schedule that always seemed out of his control.

That morning, the plan had been simple: drop the car off at the company, check in, deal with the formalities, and then kill the forty minutes before the meeting at the café on the corner. He’d grab something quick, maybe a sandwich and a hot drink. He needed that small pocket of routine to get his head straight. But his mind was somewhere else entirely.

He was on his way to the company because they had asked him to come in as soon as possible: “something urgent,” they’d said. Hudson had agreed without asking too many questions, although a part of him—the part that was already starting to distrust everything—had the feeling that the urgency wasn’t random, because lately, nothing was.

The parking lot came into view, and almost immediately, he recognized Connor’s car. The relief hit instantly—visceral and ridiculous. Connor was there, he was fine; nothing serious had happened. No hospitals, no accidents, no calls that would explain the silence of the past two days. Hudson felt the air rush back into his lungs—only to lose it again a second later, when irritation settled in, sharp and irrational.

If he was there… why the fuck hadn’t he replied?

The breakfast plan fell apart without much noise, and the forty minutes stopped existing. Everything Hudson had planned before the meeting shrank down to one persistent idea: talk to Connor. See him. Figure out what the hell was going on.

He parked and turned off the engine, but didn’t move right away. His phone rested on his thigh, the black screen reflecting his frown. He thought about texting him again—and immediately thought about not doing it. He even considered deleting the previous messages, like that might make him seem less insistent, somehow less exposed. Like the evidence of the silence would hurt less if he didn’t have to look at it.

None of it helped. He opened the car door and got out. When he closed it, it was harder than he meant to, and the sharp slam echoed through the almost empty parking lot, amplified by the cold Thursday morning air. The sound snapped him back into awareness of how tense his own body felt. Hudson stood still for a second, his hand still resting on the door, taking a deep breath.

"Fucking hell…" he muttered under his breath.

He didn’t usually lose control like that, not over small things. But that week seemed determined to stretch every nerve in his body without giving him a single clear answer. Connor not replying, meetings out of nowhere, and now this persistent feeling that he was showing up late to something that had already started without him. If he thought about it, it wasn’t even that much—but for some reason, he felt completely overstimulated.

He ran a hand over his face before heading toward the building entrance, grimacing when he realized his hands were dirty.

The lobby was unusually quiet, but as always, too clean and perfectly arranged. It looked like no one had come in to work that day, like no one stepped off a tile without putting everything back exactly in place—even the dust. Hudson walked up to the reception desk and rested his forearm on the marble counter, feeling the cold seep into his skin.

"I have a meeting with Steven Caldwell and Natalie Fraser," he said, trying to sound neutral.

The man behind the desk typed something quickly, barely glanced up, and nodded right away.

"Yes, sir, you can go in. They’re already expecting you."

Hudson frowned. He wasn’t a stranger there—he worked for the company—but what actually surprised him was that the receptionist knew his name without asking, despite how many people came through every day. Then he glanced at the small camera on top of the computer pointed at his face and figured maybe they had some kind of facial recognition system. But going back to the receptionist’s answer, Hudson’s expression tightened.

"Now?" he asked, unable to stop himself. "There are still like forty minutes before the meeting."

The receptionist smiled with that mechanical, rehearsed politeness.

"We were instructed to let you in as soon as you arrived."

He didn’t like that. For some reason, he really didn’t fucking like that.

"Right," Hudson replied after a second, forcing a smile that didn’t feel real at all. "Thanks."

He walked toward the elevators with that uneasy feeling in his chest warning him something wasn’t right. Hudson could say he had a kind of sixth sense when it came to reading situations that involved him, and for some reason, ever since he got that message telling him to come in because it was urgent, he had been bracing himself for the worst—and not because he was being pessimistic. Important meetings rarely started early. And when they did, it was never a good sign.

As the elevator went up, Hudson pulled out his phone almost on reflex. The chat with Connor was still just as silent. Two days of silence that now felt twice as heavy, amplified by the fact that Connor was only a few floors away. He put the phone away without typing anything.

He was so distracted that when the elevator doors opened the first time, he almost stepped out on the tenth floor. He took a step forward out of pure reflex and stopped just in time, confused, realizing that wasn’t his floor. Two women he didn’t recognize stepped in, speaking quietly, and one of them pressed the button for the twentieth floor, two levels below where he was headed.

Hudson leaned back against the rear wall, letting the cold metal seep through his back, and held back a sigh that came more from exhaustion than relief.

He couldn’t understand why he suddenly felt so on edge. It wasn’t like him. Hudson had always been the one who kept a cool head, the one who handled things, the one who knew when to talk and when to shut up. But there he was, with his stomach slightly tightened and an uncomfortable pressure in his chest, blaming it on some stupid instinct—like his body was warning him ahead of time that something was going to go wrong. Or maybe there was nothing mystical about it. Maybe it was just anxiety.

Anxiety about Connor; about his unexplained silence over the past two days; about that absence that had gotten way too loud in his head. And still, Hudson couldn’t help but feel a little fucking pathetic.

Connor didn’t owe him an explanation. Not really. He was his best friend, yeah, but that didn’t mean he had to reply to messages or return calls whenever Hudson wanted. Hudson knew that. He knew it better than anyone—especially considering he himself hadn’t properly answered Connor’s video call two nights ago. The memory hit his pride with a sharp stab of guilt.

The elevator doors opened again, this time on the twentieth floor. The two women stepped out without even looking at him, and the doors slid shut again with a soft mechanical hum. Hudson barely registered it.

When the doors finally opened on the twenty-second floor, it was only then that Hudson realized he hadn’t even noticed when he ended up alone. He straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and stepped forward, like that alone might give him back the control he felt slipping through his fingers.

Sara gave him a small wave as soon as she saw him step out of the elevator. Her office sat diagonally across, impossible to miss. Around it, the floor buzzed with activity—at least a dozen desks with double partitions, glowing screens, keyboards being hammered with urgency, and low voices slipping through phone calls. Sara, on the other hand, was in her glass prison.

A spacious, perfectly organized cubicle from where she could observe everyone under her supervision like she was sitting in some kind of control tower. Hudson walked toward her without hesitation, because there was something in that gesture of hers—not obvious at first glance—that made it clear this wasn’t just casual conversation.

"Good morning," he greeted as soon as he crossed the threshold.

"Good to see you’re always so punctual," Sara replied, lifting her glass to her lips.

Hudson wrinkled his nose when the smell hit him. The coffee was black—with a very obvious extra of whiskey. He couldn’t wrap his head around drinking alcohol that early in the morning, especially before an important meeting.

"Well," he said, shrugging, "forty minutes before the meeting is still technically outside schedule. It’s not the agreed time." He tried to joke, though it came out a little awkward.

Sara gave a faint smile, humorless, and gestured toward the chair in front of her desk.

"Have a seat, please."

Hudson obeyed, but before sitting down, he cast one last glance over his shoulder at the busy floor. That’s when he saw Sara pick up a small remote and press a button without taking her eyes off him.

The glass walls, previously completely transparent, turned opaque white within seconds, sealing the space. From inside, you couldn’t see out—and from outside, you couldn’t see in. Hudson’s stomach tightened.

"Do you want something to drink?" Sara asked, leaning back in her chair.

"I’m good," he answered immediately, raising his hands slightly to reinforce the point. "Thanks."

What he really wanted to say was just get to the fucking point. But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned back slightly in the chair, crossing his arms and legs while watching Sara carefully. He knew something important was coming—the urgency of the call had put him on edge the moment he stepped onto the twenty-second floor.

"Hudson," Sara began, her tone soft but firm at the same time, "before the meeting, I wanted to talk to you about Connor." She tilted her head slightly. "About both of you, actually. About how we’re positioning you."

Hudson raised an eyebrow. He was curious about what exactly she meant, but at the same time, he couldn’t ignore the tight feeling in his stomach.

"How… how are you positioning us?" he asked, trying to sound neutral, though for some reason his heart was beating faster than usual.

Sara sighed and adjusted in her chair.

"Well… from CAA (Creative Artists Agency), we’re rethinking the entire strategy around the two of you. The first season of Heated Rivalry was a success, and the audience loves you together."

"I know."

"The idea is… to create a line of projects where you’re always the leads, even romantically, but in different universes. Different stories, different characters—but always as a kind of ‘joint brand.’"

Hudson frowned.

"Joint brand?" he repeated, feeling a knot form in his throat.

Connor and Hudson had talked about this too many times for there to be any doubt. What the company was proposing was nowhere near what they actually wanted. They had both decided to work separately on promoting the show precisely to avoid being boxed into something that reduced them to “the gay hockey players with more chemistry than a fucking periodic table.” They didn’t want their careers to depend on how the public perceived their relationship, nor did they want everything they did to be boxed into romantic stories that forced them to be together in every project. Their friendship—and their love—mattered, yeah, but they couldn’t and didn’t want to turn that into the central brand of their professional lives. The idea of someone else deciding how they should appear, how they should interact, or what worlds they should share made them both uneasy; they needed the freedom to grow, to explore their careers without their relationship becoming a constant spectacle.

Sara must have noticed it in his reaction, because she gave a slightly awkward smile before continuing.

"I know this might be something you haven’t really considered yet," she said, and Hudson couldn’t help but think she was completely fucking wrong. "That’s why I wanted to talk to you directly. Connor is your friend, of course, and you care about each other a lot, but we want this to go beyond the first season of HR or any project we can confirm right now."

Hudson raised an eyebrow again, and he knew his face probably couldn’t hide the mix of frustration and confusion running through him anymore.

"We want you to become a concept the audience recognizes: Hudson and Connor. Always together, even if the characters change. The idea is that you can lead any project—but as an inseparable ‘package.’"

Sara kept talking in that carefully diplomatic tone, though Hudson could hear the insistence behind every word. He knew she was trying to come across as calm, like she knew exactly what she was doing; but at the same time, she seemed a little desperate not to have him get up and walk the fuck out.

Hudson shifted uncomfortably in his chair, taking a deep breath to keep his composure. Everything Sara was saying clashed head-on with what he and Connor had agreed on: they didn’t want to be seen as a brand, didn’t want their friendship and their love turned into something people could constantly consume. Their careers, their individual ambitions, their creative freedom—everything was at stake.

"I understand the idea," Hudson said finally, his voice steady even if he was holding everything in check. "But Connor and I have worked really hard to keep our careers independent. We don’t want our personal relationship to become a requirement for every future project."

Sara nodded, but the discomfort stayed on her face. She knew that wasn’t the answer she wanted, and Hudson could tell she was trying to figure out how to convince him without being too blunt and pushing harder into the tension she had just created.

"I know," she said, softening her tone. "But I wanted you to know what we’re considering. It’s not final, not at all. We just wanted you—since you understand the dynamic between you two—to hear it first."

Hudson took a breath, trying to settle the irritation and frustration running through him.

"Sara, this isn’t about ‘selling’ something—it’s about us. Connor and I are friends, yeah, and we care about each other, yeah, but we’re not a fucking package. I don’t want to feel like what we do individually matters less if we’re not together. I don’t want our careers to depend on always standing next to each other."

Sara nodded, a little resigned, and rested her elbows on the desk.

"I know, Hudson. That’s why I wanted to hear you directly. We’re trying to make this work for everyone: production, you, and the audience. But I also understand you have your own limits and personal goals." She paused. "I just want you to know this isn’t an ultimatum. It’s a proposal—but we need clarity. If you decide not to go in that direction, we need to know now."

Hudson wanted to make it clear there was nothing to consider; this was something he and Connor had talked about for a long time, and it wasn’t negotiable. Still, he knew he at least had to sit through the main meeting he’d been called to before stating his position outright. If it were just up to him, he’d say a flat-out no—and he was sure Connor would say the exact same thing. Even so, he just nodded.

"It’s something I need to discuss with my agent—and with Connor," he said finally, choosing each word carefully, making sure not to say too much while still making it clear he hadn’t agreed to anything. Sara nodded, with a smile that tried to look triumphant. Hudson watched her for a moment, letting her believe she might actually get somewhere; but inside, his decision was already made—it was a hard no.

"Perfect," she replied, with that mix of politeness and satisfaction that gave away she thought she had at least secured something. "Then I’ll expect your feedback soon."

Hudson turned toward the door, aware that his immediate priority was the main meeting. He could let Sara think she had some kind of chance; later, when he was face to face with Connor, they could reinforce their position together without compromising anything they already knew they didn’t want.

Sara and Hudson walked down a long hallway toward the conference room. As they walked, Sara explained in broad terms that during the meeting with Steven Caldwell and Natalie Fraser, they would go over the legal terms of this new strategy for managing their joint image.

Hudson felt a mix of disappointment and irritation, because when they signed with CAA, one of the promises—and an explicit point in their contract—had been to build their careers as independent professionals. Connor and he had signed separate contracts precisely to avoid being locked into an inseparable “package.” And now, suddenly, it all felt like bullshit. Because in that moment, Hudson couldn’t help but wonder if they had been planning this from the very beginning.

When they finally reached the room, a man in a security suit opened the door and let them in. Hudson barely held back a scoff. A security guard in a conference room on the twenty-second floor felt like an absurd overkill, an unnecessary display of control that did nothing to ease the tension already sitting in his chest. He greeted as politely as he could, but the bile rose instantly the moment he stepped inside and met Connor’s eyes. For a second, they both froze, just staring at each other. Connor looked surprised, thrown off, like he hadn’t expected Hudson to be there at that moment—even though, obviously, they had both been called in.

Hudson understood right away why they had been called in, but he couldn’t help wondering why the hell it was necessary to wear themselves down with that conversation separately. Couldn’t they just talk business like professionals and stop complicating things with personal tension that was already about to blow up?

He forced himself to take a deep breath and keep his composure, while part of him braced for the meeting. He knew Connor would probably put on his usual “everything’s fine” face—that mask he always used to hide any discomfort. Hudson would have to read between the lines of every little gesture to understand what his best friend was actually feeling.

But it wasn’t that hard. Connor definitely hadn’t slept well; the purplish shadows under his eyes, barely hidden with concealer, gave him away. He looked exactly like he had the past few weeks: tired, worn down, and a little sick. For a second, Hudson wondered if things between Connor and François were really that bad; if it were something personal or family-related, Hudson was sure he’d already know everything.

He took a seat right across from Connor, who gave him a genuine smile, grateful not to have to face this alone. Hudson returned it with a small gesture of relief. It was okay—at least for now—to have his friend there.

Steven Caldwell welcomed them in his usual tone, while Natalie Fraser placed what looked like expensive folders in front of them. The room was quiet, austere, giving everything that intimidating edge. There were only the five of them, though Sara stayed just long enough to say goodbye before leaving them alone with the two executives.

"I have to thank both of you for making time so quickly—and for being available on the same day," Caldwell said, with a smile that tried to be cordial but didn’t fully hide the urgency. "I know your schedules are very busy."

Connor and Hudson just nodded in silence. Hudson didn’t even need to look at Connor for long to know he was just as disappointed with the direction of this meeting.

"In the folder, you’ll find the full proposal," Natalie continued. "From the overall concept of the brand to the pilot projects that could be developed if you decide to move forward with it."

They both opened the folders almost at the same time. Hudson skimmed through the documents with one eye critical and the other half on Connor; when he saw his best friend doing the same, they both pressed their lips together, holding back a laugh at how fucking absurd the whole thing was.

For a moment, Connor looked like himself again—calm, with a hint of amusement and that slightly childish expression Hudson knew so well. Seeing him smile, even just a little, was enough for Hudson to momentarily forget about the unanswered messages.

Hudson took a breath, aware the meeting was just getting started, but for a second, sharing that silent understanding made him feel grounded. No matter what Natalie and Caldwell threw at them, at least Connor was there with him.

Steven Caldwell adjusted in his chair, lacing his fingers together on the table.

"Alright, we’ve reviewed your careers and the impact you both generate together. The chemistry between you is undeniable, and the audience recognizes that." He paused, watching them carefully, measuring their reactions. "That’s why we believe consolidating your image as a ‘concept’ would be beneficial for everyone."

Natalie Fraser opened her folder with a quick motion, the hard cover hitting the table with a sharp sound as it struck the wood, and continued.

"The idea is simple: maintain audience attention, maximize the reach of each project, and of course, minimize risk. If you both always work together, we can guarantee visibility, consistency, and above all, relevance in the industry."

Hudson raised an eyebrow, exchanging a quick look with Connor, who still held his usual “everything’s fine” mask.

Steven smiled slightly. It wasn’t genuine at all, but at least it passed as polite—nothing arrogant, just calculated.

"Of course, we understand you both have independent projects, but it’s hard to ignore how the industry works. If you choose not to consolidate this ‘brand,’ you could be limiting future opportunities. Maybe not tomorrow or next week, but in the medium and long term, your exposure decreases, and certain contracts may become harder to secure."

"We should also mention there are legal aspects to consider," Natalie added. "Exclusivity, promotional clauses, and contractual obligations for each project you take on could be affected if they don’t align with this strategy. We’re not trying to scare you, but we prefer to be clear from the start."

"No one likes talking about limitations, but the industry is ruthless." Steven leaned slightly forward, emphasizing every word. "Those who don’t adapt to branding opportunities tend to lose ground. And we don’t want you to end up in that position."

"So think of this as a strategic step." Natalie smiled again, and unlike Steven’s earlier one, this one was smug. "Working together doesn’t mean you stop being individuals—it means every project comes with built-in support and exposure that, honestly, would be very hard to achieve separately."

Silence wrapped around the room. Hudson felt every word sink deep into his head. It unsettled him—not just because of the corporate pressure, but because there was already something personal bothering him, something that had eased slightly when he saw Connor again, but was still there. Connor adjusted the folder on the table, avoiding eye contact, but Hudson could clearly read the frustration behind that flawless mask.

Hudson took a deep breath, resting his forearms on the table. He glanced at Connor for a second, and Connor gave him a subtle nod back.

"We appreciate the clarity," Hudson said, his tone firm without being rude. "We understand the benefits of what you’re proposing, but this isn’t something we can accept the way it’s being presented."

"Yeah, Hudson and I have talked about our careers and how we want to handle them for a long time," Connor added, just as calm. "This isn’t about chemistry or visibility—it’s about professional independence. We both want to explore projects individually, grow in different creative spaces, not be stuck as some inseparable ‘package.’"

Natalie raised an eyebrow, smiling with that same politeness that didn’t fool Hudson anymore.

"I understand, but don’t you see how that could limit your reach? The industry values strong, consistent brands. If you decide not to go down this path, there could be consequences—contractual and professional."

"We’re aware of that," Hudson said, still not fully understanding how the hell there could be legal or contractual consequences for that. "And we appreciate it, really—but it doesn’t change our decision. We don’t want everything we do to depend on some formula that boxes us into a shared image. We’re best friends and we care about each other, but we don’t want that to define every step we take in our careers."

"That’s a bold stance, sure…" Steven laced his fingers together on the table, his tone turning colder. "Though, honestly, risky. A lot of people would see this as an opportunity you shouldn’t pass up."

"Risky, maybe." Connor gave a half-smile. "But it’s our career—and our friendship. We don’t want anyone forcing us to package it like it’s some kind of product."

"Alright. Then that’s clear," Natalie said. "We just wanted to lay out the benefits—and the potential risks of not going down this path. The decision is yours."

Hudson stood up in one quick motion, sharper than he intended, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, like he could end the conversation right there—and maybe, if he was lucky, erase everything they had just heard. He had absolutely no interest in letting Steven or Natalie add one more word or another warning dressed up as advice.

It was disappointing, yeah—but not irreversible. They could always walk away, say no, protect what they had worked so fucking hard for.

He saw Connor mirror the movement almost instantly, standing up too, and in that reflex, he knew Connor was thinking exactly the same thing. That kind of synchronicity—so natural between them—hit him with a strange pang in his chest. For all the shit that was wrong, at least in that, they were still aligned. And Hudson couldn’t feel more relieved because of it.

Hudson was the first to head for the door. He walked fast—too fast—like he was afraid Steven and Natalie might get up and follow them, like any attempt to drag the meeting out could catch up to them in the hallway. So when he stepped out, he didn’t look back. He didn’t want to see if they were following.

Once outside, the echo of the building wrapped around them again. Hudson kept walking a few more steps, the folder still clutched tightly under his arm, until he suddenly stopped short. Connor almost ran into his back.

"We need to talk," Hudson said, turning around quickly.

Connor looked at him, slightly caught off guard, and for a split second, he seemed to search for the right mask—the usual one—but he couldn’t put it on. He dropped his gaze a little, like he already knew there was no point pretending.

"But not about this bullshit meeting," Hudson added immediately, his voice bitter. "Not about contracts, or brands, or what the fuck they want us to be. You and I need to talk."

He didn’t need to say anything else. Hudson knew it the moment he saw Connor press his lips together and nod slowly. From the start, Connor had known what he meant; maybe he’d been waiting for hours for one of them to say it out loud. Maybe, if Hudson hadn’t, Connor would’ve ended up doing it himself.

"Let’s go," Connor finally said, letting out a quiet sigh.

This time, he took the lead, turning on his heel and guiding him toward the elevators. Hudson followed without saying a word, feeling like that “let’s go” didn’t just mean changing floors—it meant going somewhere private, somewhere Connor could finally let out everything he’d been holding in.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you very much to everyone who read the first chapter, and also to those who made it to the end of this one. To those who left comments and kudos, you give me so much motivation to keep going.

Considering that today our beloved Hudson shared updates from his date in Italy, I want to remind everyone that these stories are born from a healthy ship and do not, in any way, attack the people who are part of HudCon’s private lives. Thank you for reading.

Chapter 3: Collateral

CHAPTER III

“Do you want to order sushi delivery?” Hudson asked as soon as they stepped into the apartment.

They both took off their shoes at the entrance and carefully left them on the rack. Their jackets followed, hung without hurry on the coat stand.

“You know I could eat it for the rest of my life,” Connor replied, with that apparent calm that hid the tension weighing on him.

He stayed standing by the door, its edge brushing his back, as if moving any farther inside would force him to flee. Hudson watched him for a moment, but assumed he just needed a second to mentally settle.

Kiley wasn’t home; she was at work. And maybe because of everything swirling in his head, along with the recent clashes with François, Connor felt a knot in his stomach. Wasn’t it stupid to even think about it? Hudson and he were just friends… so why should he feel wrong about being alone in the house Hudson shared with his girlfriend?

Connor cleared his throat but didn’t take a step forward. Hudson barely noticed his stillness until he came back from his bedroom a few minutes later. He had changed out of his tight slacks into loose joggers and a comfortable hoodie.

“What are you doing?” Hudson asked, frowning at him with a mix of reproach and amusement. “Here!”

He tossed him a set of clothes, an improvised but firm gesture.

“We’ve got a few hours before your next thing, so get comfortable until then,” he added, smiling slightly.

Connor caught the clothes against his chest and smiled. He walked into the living room and, with complete naturalness, changed in front of Hudson. Hudson, leaning into the fridge, was pulling out a couple of bottles of water. Connor folded his street clothes and placed them on the ottoman by the side of the room.

Gizmo was dozing in his cat gym, barely noticing either of them

“I’m afraid I can only offer you water until the food gets here,” Hudson said, scrunching his mouth in a playful grimace. “Kiley and I haven’t restocked the pantry.”

Connor took the bottle while adjusting the sleeve of the hoodie, unintentionally breathing in Hudson’s familiar scent: a mix of floral fabric softener with woody notes that felt undeniably familiar and comforting. He checked his phone for a moment before sitting down on the couch, not noticing Hudson’s furrowed brow as he watched him.

“Trouble again?” Hudson asked, leaning back in the armchair across from him, crossing one leg over the other while downing half the bottle in one go.

Connor looked up, the question mirrored on his face. He hesitated for a second before setting the phone aside.

“It’s just… I haven’t heard from him in two days.”

“Wow…” Hudson exclaimed, feigning amazement. “What is that? Some new alien communication technique you’re trying out as a couple?”

Connor managed a humorless smile. He knew Hudson’s comment had hit the mark—direct, unfiltered—pointing straight at his absence and the silence of the last two days. He hadn’t answered his messages, and every word from Hudson reminded him that the conversation he’d been dreading was inevitable. He felt the knot in his stomach tighten, a mix of guilt and the certainty that, sooner or later, he would have to open up and face it.

“Wow…” Hudson murmured, lowering the bottle and resting his elbows on his thighs. “And here I was, worrying that I’d done something wrong or accidentally blown up the planet, but you guys have been working on something exceptional, huh?”

Connor let out a sigh and sank a little deeper into the couch, trying to relax his tense shoulders.

“No… I mean…” he said, his voice softer. “I just needed time to get my head straight. But I know I was really selfish.”

Hudson raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms.

“Selfish… you?” he joked. Connor was anything but selfish.

Connor let out a weak laugh, twisting his lips. “I know, it sounds ridiculous, but… sometimes I don’t want to drag you into all the chaos I deal with.”

Hudson looked at him for a long moment, his expression a mix of exasperation and understanding.

“Connor, if I ever think you’re a mess… you know I’ll tell you—I already have. But also… I’m not going to let you lock yourself alone in that chaos. Not for a second longer. Not while I can do something. Not while I can be here for you.”

Connor knew it was true. Damn it, Hudson had been unwavering with him since the day they met. Always there, even when Connor got lost in his own knots. And hearing him say those words now—so firm and concerned at the same time—filled him with a mix of relief and guilt that left him breathless. Because he knew that, despite everything, Hudson wasn’t judging him; he just didn’t want him to drown alone.

“I know…” Connor finally said, lowering his head as a small smile formed on his lips. “Thank you for that.”

Hudson didn’t respond right away, but when Connor looked up and caught that faint, trembling shine in his eyes, he knew his friend was waiting for something. An explanation.

Connor didn’t speak. He couldn’t. So Hudson did it for him.

“Did you fight?”

Connor barely nodded, a minimal, almost imperceptible gesture, and immediately looked away toward his phone, which was still completely black. No notifications. No messages from François. Nothing. As if silence itself had become another form of punishment.

He sighed heavily, as though he’d been short of air for hours. He unscrewed the bottle and took a long sip—too long—trying to swallow along with the water everything lodged in his throat.

“Everything’s been a complete fucking mess, Huddy…” he murmured. He cleared his throat when his voice threatened to break. “I mean… I don’t know when we became this. He and I. We fight all the time.”

Hudson pressed his lips into a hard line. He didn’t make a sarcastic comment, didn’t crack a joke to lighten the mood. Somehow, that was worse.

“Yeah,” he finally said, slowly. “I know.”

And Connor knew he really did. Not because he’d told him every detail before, but because Hudson always saw more than he thought. Because he knew his silences, his mood shifts, the way his shoulders tensed when something was wrong.

It was also obvious how much the situation bothered him. Hudson wasn’t angry at Connor, but at everything wearing him down. At François, at the fights, at that tired, broken version of his friend sitting in front of him.

For a second, Connor wondered if he’d made a mistake even bringing it up. If Hudson was already uncomfortable with how much they fought, he didn’t want to imagine his reaction when he told him everything that had really happened. The words they’d said. The bracelet. The silence afterward. The two-day absence.

Maybe he should abort the confession. Hold onto it a little longer.

But Hudson was watching him too closely to let him back out now.

So Connor began to talk, carefully avoiding details that directly involved Hudson. It was a delicate balance: he wanted to be honest about how he’d felt, but he didn’t want Hudson to read between the lines that many of those fights with François had been sparked, in part, by him.

He didn’t want to burden him with guilt that wasn’t his. It wouldn’t be fair. Hudson wasn’t to blame for anything, and Connor couldn’t allow the weight of his confusion to fall on his best friend. As he spoke, he measured every word, every pause, trying to say just enough for Hudson to understand the magnitude of what had happened without dragging him into the whirlwind of his relationship.

Even so, every sentence carried a small tremor of guilt and anxiety, because he knew the full truth was there, hidden in the silences and the things he wasn’t saying. And Hudson knew it. That was why, despite his efforts to protect him, Connor felt his friend’s gaze cut straight through the surface.

Hudson listened in silence the entire time, carefully controlling every gesture, every subtle contraction of his face, trying not to let any opinion show about what Connor was telling him. But everything changed when the conversation reached the argument about the bracelet. Hudson noticed the slight tremor in Connor’s voice, the way his hands unconsciously tightened around the water bottle, and immediately understood that this time was different. This was the argument Connor couldn’t dress up or soften—the one he couldn’t pretend Hudson wasn’t part of.

Connor swallowed and, in a thin voice, began to recount it exactly as it had happened. There were no filters, no watered-down explanations or excuses; just the truth as he remembered it, every detail, every emotion that had run through him. And as he spoke, Hudson felt the room close in around them, the air growing heavy with that familiar mix of guilt, anxiety, and closeness that always defined them. It wasn’t easy to hear, but he couldn’t look away or interrupt; he knew his role wasn’t to judge, but to be there, holding him up even in the moments when Connor himself doubted.

When Connor finished, there was a moment of absolute silence. Hudson took a deep breath, allowing himself a small sigh before responding.

“I fucking knew it,” Hudson murmured. Connor looked at him from the couch, confused, the water bottle resting between his hands.

“What do you mean?” Connor asked, resting his elbows on his knees without moving from his spot.

“I may look like it sometimes… but I’m not an idiot,” Hudson tried to joke, but instantly realized neither of them was in the mood. “For some reason… I had this feeling that…” His hands moved awkwardly as he tried to organize his words. “I’m not trying to be a fucking egocentric asshole, but I felt like I was somehow to blame for part of this.”

Connor frowned, leaning slightly forward. If he’d been sitting next to him, he would have taken Hudson’s hand and given it a squeeze to show his disagreement.

“What? No!” he said firmly. “None of this is your fault, Huddy.”

“I guess I get it,” Hudson murmured, lowering his gaze and fiddling with the edge of his hoodie sleeve. “François…”

He paused, taking a deep breath, as if carrying those words were a physical weight. Connor rested his forearms on his legs, staying grounded on the couch, attentive to every gesture, every held breath, every microexpression that slipped from Hudson.

“What exactly do you think you understand?” Connor asked, his brow slightly furrowed.

“I mean,” Hudson clarified, his voice low, almost hesitant, “maybe I’ve played an active role in your boyfriend’s insecurities?”

Connor wasn’t sure whether that was a statement or a genuine question. He held Hudson’s gaze for a few seconds, weighing it, and finally decided it was the latter.

“You can’t be responsible for what other people feel, think, or decide,” Connor said, shrugging as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “What happens between him and me is out of your hands.”

“Yeah, but—” Hudson started, not finishing the sentence.

“But nothing,” Connor cut in firmly, though calmly. “What exactly are you responsible for? Knowing me well enough? Being my friend? Making sure the moon doesn’t fall out of the sky or crash into the sun?”

Hudson let out a sad half-smile, tilting his head.

“You can’t—no—” Connor corrected, with a casual gesture. “There are things that are inevitable—for you and for me. François’s insecurities are his responsibility alone, but if there’s anyone who can feed them or ease them… that’s me. I’m his boyfriend.”

Hudson nodded slightly, though he seemed distant, as if his thoughts were drifting elsewhere.

“Fuck,” Hudson said, roughly running a hand over his face, suddenly noticing the bracelet on his wrist. “He hasn’t written to you at all since then?”

“Nothing,” Connor whispered. “He didn’t even answer my calls.”

“Oh, wow,” Hudson rolled his eyes, disbelief edging his voice. “Wasn’t that part of the argument?”

Connor lowered his gaze, playing with the water bottle in his hands, avoiding letting Hudson see the mix of frustration and sadness on his face.

“I know,” Connor said, making a vague gesture with his mouth, as if trying to downplay it. “I guess he doesn’t feel ready to talk to me.”

“But fuck him,” Hudson no longer tried to hide how much it bothered him. “You’re leaving tomorrow for a month. Doesn’t that matter at all to him?”

Connor didn’t answer right away. The question lodged itself in his chest, because it was exactly what he’d been asking himself during those endless nights. And still, some stupid part of him kept believing he might deserve it. That maybe the silence was a logical consequence, a punishment for not doing things right.

He knew it the moment he thought it: it was unfair. For both of them.

“We’re adults,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Old enough to talk about our shit. Ghosting me isn’t… it isn’t a mature response.”

Hudson clenched his jaw, clearly agreeing.

“It isn’t.”

Connor swallowed. Silence settled between them again—heavy, uncomfortable.

“Maybe this time…” he started, but the sentence dissolved in his throat. “Maybe this time it really is over.”

He said it almost in a whisper, as if saying it louder would make it real.

Hudson stood up without saying a word. He walked slowly to the couch and sat down beside Connor. The movement was so natural Connor barely had time to process it before turning to face him.

Hudson lifted his hand and, with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with his earlier anger, brushed his thumb along Connor’s jawline. Connor looked up and met eyes filled with genuine concern—no judgment, no reproach.

“You love each other…” Hudson said softly, as if it weren’t an opinion but an unshakable truth. “And it shows.”

He said it without haste, without trying to convince him. Hudson held his gaze, watching him with almost reverent attention. Connor looked different like this, he thought. Disarmed. With his shoulders slightly slumped and his gaze dull, far from the Connor who cracked jokes to dodge what hurt. More fragile. Smaller. As if the emotional exhaustion weighed even in his bones.

Hudson didn’t stop to analyze it. He acted purely on impulse. He wrapped his arms around Connor and pulled him close, firm but careful, as if he were afraid Connor might break in his hands.

Connor didn’t resist. On the contrary, he melted into the embrace with a docility that said more than any words ever could.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Hudson murmured, lowering his voice. “Not now, maybe not today… but it will pass. You’ll talk. When you’re both ready.”

Connor closed his eyes and returned the gesture, wrapping his arms around Hudson’s waist, clinging to him with a need he hadn’t anticipated—one that rose in his chest before he could stop it. He buried his face in the hollow of Hudson’s neck and breathed in without thinking. Hudson smelled clean, familiar, grounding. Like home.

For one second—just one—his heart stopped pounding. The mental noise faded. Everything went quiet.

And then, something shifted inside him.

The prolonged contact, the way Hudson held him without hurry, the warmth of his body, that scent now far too close… it all twisted something strange in his stomach. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t comfort.

It was something else.

Something he didn’t want to name, because naming it would mean admitting it. And admitting it terrified him.

Connor pulled back slightly, just enough to catch his breath, making sure the movement looked natural. But Hudson didn’t move far enough. He was still there. Too close. When Connor lifted his head, their faces were only inches apart.

Too close.

The air between them thickened, heavy with a silent tension neither of them knew how to break. Connor held his breath. Hudson did too. The world seemed to shrink down to that narrow space between their mouths, to that suspended second where nothing happened… but everything could have.

And then, like a blessing dropped straight from the sky, the intercom rang.

Connor had never been so grateful for a sushi delivery in his entire life.

Hudson stood up almost immediately—too fast, like he urgently needed distance.

“That must be the food,” he said, clearing his throat.

Connor nodded, his pulse still racing.

As Hudson walked toward the entrance, Connor stayed frozen in place, trying to understand what the fuck that had been. And judging by how Hudson nearly ran to answer the intercom, he knew he hadn’t been the only one who felt it.

***

Tayler picked Connor up at the airport. They were in his sister’s car, since Connor’s had been left behind in Canada. There was no point in bringing it—he didn’t want to face such a long drive completely alone, especially knowing that in a few weeks he’d have to return for the second season’s filming.

Besides, he wasn’t in any shape to drive for hours—or days—if he broke down the way he knew he would, his head completely knotted up.

He’d left François’s apartment that very morning. He did it quietly, with the uncomfortable feeling of abandoning a place that no longer fully belonged to him. There’d been no news from him. No texts. No calls. Nothing. The silence was still there, dense, crushing his chest with an absurd weight that didn’t lift even after crossing countries.

Connor had barely eaten in days. Hunger felt distant, irrelevant. Sleeping hadn’t really been an option either—every time he closed his eyes, his mind filled with unfinished conversations, badly chosen words, looks he’d understood too late. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling, waiting for a sound that never came.

The night before, overwhelmed by anxiety and a worry he could no longer ignore, he’d swallowed his pride. He’d texted Sophie Nélisse to ask if François was with her. Just doing it had felt humiliating, desperate—but he hadn’t seen another option.

Because François had never done anything like this.

He’d never left without saying anything. Never disappeared like this. And that—more than the argument—was what truly had him on edge.

“You look like shit,” Tayler said bluntly, glancing away from the road for just a second to look at him.

Connor managed a tired smile, the kind that never quite reaches the eyes.

“Thanks for the observation,” he muttered.

Tayler snorted but didn’t push. He knew when to talk and when to let silence do the work. The car moved through familiar streets, but Connor felt like everything was slightly off, as if he’d returned to a life that had kept moving without him.

He rested his head against the window and closed his eyes.

For the first time since boarding the plane, he allowed himself to think that maybe nothing would be the same when he came back.

Sophie hadn’t replied as quickly as Connor would’ve liked. And when she finally did, the answer was no.

François wasn’t with her.

That, in some cruel way, made everything worse.

The phone vibrated, and Connor hurried to grab it—his movement so automatic and desperate he didn’t even try to hide it. For a split second, he was sure it would be François. The motion was so abrupt that Tayler snorted from the driver’s seat.

“Relax,” he murmured. “You’re gonna break your phone.”

Connor lowered his gaze even before reading the screen, like his body already knew it wasn’t who he was hoping for. His shoulders slumped when he confirmed it.

It was Hudson.

“How was the trip?”

Just a text.

Connor shifted in his seat, leaning back against the headrest as he typed his reply. They’d said goodbye the day before, after Connor had practically inhaled all the sushi he’d ordered before rushing off to a photo shoot that ended much later than expected. He hadn’t allowed himself to think too much about that strange moment that had hung between them before the intercom rang.

Because it had been nothing.

Just vulnerability.

And Hudson, as always, being there.

Sometimes Connor felt like he was some kind of emotional vampire—draining the people he loved most without realizing it. Maybe Hudson just had a soft spot for sad faces.

Connor didn’t say anything to Hudson about his idea of taking a break from wearing the matching bracelets. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it.”

“It was quick,” he finally wrote.

Then he added: “Chocolate chip cookie and a latte? My stomach’s fucked.”

The reply came almost instantly.

“Destroy Tayler’s bathroom. Tell her I say hi.”

Connor let out a low, genuine laugh and turned the phone toward his sister to show her the message.

“Hudson says hi.”

Tayler smiled without taking her eyes off the road.

“Tell him Los Angeles is waiting for him, baby.”

Connor did, typing the response with a smile that spread wider than he’d expected. Tayler adored Hudson. Sometimes Connor swore she liked him more than she liked him—and that said a lot.

But they both knew that visit would have to wait.

Hudson would stay in Vancouver a while longer, and then there’d be that one-week trip with Kiley they’d planned almost like a rescue mission for their relationship. With filming so close, free time was a nonexistent luxury. They both had active projects overlapping with production, commitments that demanded full presence.

Technically, they’d need to clone themselves.

Or find functional doppelgängers.

After that would come promotions, interviews, red carpets, and everything else that always arrived like an avalanche impossible to stop.

Connor rested his head against the car window and watched the city pass by.

For a moment, the exchange with Hudson eased the pressure in his chest. Just a little. Enough to breathe.

Connor realized he never responded to Hudson about his idea for a couples’ plan next weekend—right when François would be in Los Angeles and before Hudson’s trip with Kiley. After all, he wasn’t even sure if François was still his boyfriend, and he wasn’t certain it was a good idea for Hudson’s relationship if they both went to Los Angeles for a double date.

***

Hudson walked out of Aritzia’s offices with his blazer slung over his forearm and his phone already in hand, heading toward the curb where Elena was waiting with the engine running. Aritzia and Hermès had both contacted his agent directly to work with him on specific campaigns for their new collections. No long-term contracts. No exclusivity. Exactly the kind of deal Hudson was willing to accept.

Modeling had never been his priority. It seemed like a beautiful, superficial world—and, at times, an exhausting one. But these were concrete campaigns, well paid, with fixed dates. Hard to say no.

Elena handed him a cup of coffee as soon as he got into the car.

“We still have time for you to eat something,” she said, watching him over the top of her sunglasses.

“I’m not hungry,” Hudson replied, taking an automatic sip of coffee while typing a quick message to Kiley with his free hand.

Elena raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“The meeting might take a while.”

Hudson let out a low laugh and tilted his head.

“Perfect,” he said, feigning relief. “I’ve always wanted to find out how many hours a functional adult can survive on coffee and bad fucking decisions.”

Elena shook her head, though she smiled.

“One of these days you’re going to pass out in a luxury boardroom and I’ll have to explain that your weakness is basic nutrition.”

“Put it down as part of the charm,” Hudson replied, resting his head against the seat. “Minimalist model. Eats little. Complains a lot.”

Elena started the car while Hudson locked his phone. The joke faded almost immediately, like it had an expiration date, and silence settled back in between them.

“I was checking social media earlier,” Elena said, merging into traffic calmly.

Hudson responded with a noncommittal mmh—just enough to signal her to continue.

“There are photos of you and Connor everywhere. Walking around Main Street.”

Hudson let out a dry laugh.

“Two friends shopping and grabbing food. Wow. What a fucking scandal,” he said sarcastically, like the topic didn’t even deserve half a second of attention.

Elena laughed but didn’t let it go that easily.

“You still firm on rejecting the ‘inseparable duo’ deal?”

Hudson turned toward her, a crooked smile forming on his face.

“Oh yeah, my lady,” he said. “No lovesick Siamese twins.” He made a theatrical hand gesture. “Each with our own necks, thanks.”

Elena laughed again, though this time she shot him a quick sideways look, assessing him.

“I’m asking seriously.”

“And I’m answering seriously,” Hudson said, leaning back in the seat. “We’re not a product.”

“But technically, you are,” Elena replied, still smiling.

“Separately,” Hudson shot back. “Like Barbie and Ken.”

Elena burst out laughing.

“I have to admit, in a way, it’s a shame. I like seeing you two together.”

“You see us together in real life, don’t you?” Hudson replied. “Isn’t that better?”

“No kissing or sex involved?” she joked. “How is that even possible?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Hudson said, laughing despite himself.

Elena raised her eyebrows, amused.

“So where is he, anyway?”

Hudson knew exactly who she meant.

“He hasn’t activated his GPS, so I haven’t been able to track him today,” he replied dryly.

Elena elbowed him in the arm.

“He’s been in Los Angeles for a week,” Hudson continued. “Probably with his sister… or friends. I don’t know.”

The truth was, he did know. Or at least, enough.

Hudson had made a conscious decision not to text Connor too often. He’d sold it to himself as a healthy gesture—letting him enjoy his time in LA, away from the chaos left behind in Vancouver. Giving him space. Breathing.

But deep down, he knew that wasn’t all of it.

The last time Connor had been at his apartment, something had happened. A brief moment, almost imperceptible, but strange enough to lodge itself in his chest like a splinter. And it was eating him alive.

It wasn’t like they’d never hugged before. Or touched hands. Or invaded each other’s personal space without shame. Connor had been biting and licking his cheeks forever; Hudson slapped his ass in passing or bit his broad back as a familiar joke. That kind of closeness had always been part of them.

So why had that hug been different?

Hudson still remembered the way Connor’s nose had brushed along his neck. Was he smelling him?

Fuck.

He forced himself to cut off the thought. He was already giving it too much space in his head. Way more than he should.

So maybe, influenced by everything Connor had told him about François—or maybe by that uncomfortable knot that wouldn’t untangle—Hudson told himself that reconsidering boundaries wasn’t an overreaction.

Maybe this time, it was something they actually had to take seriously.

Hudson arrived at Hermès with the automatic punctuality of someone who no longer allows himself to be late for anything—but he hadn’t expected to find François in the reception area. Great. His constant fucking thoughts had summoned him.

The surprise hit him like a poorly calculated blow, straight to the chest, knocking the air out of him for a fraction of a second. For an absurd moment, he considered turning around, faking an urgent call, disappearing before François noticed him.

Too late.

Elena, oblivious—or pretending to be—to the sudden tension tightening Hudson’s shoulders, gestured briefly for him to sit and wait, saying she’d announce them as soon as possible. Hudson nodded without arguing. He didn’t have the energy.

The lobby was so pristine it felt almost hostile: pale marble, perfectly lined chairs, the low murmur of carefully measured voices. A place where no one raised their tone, where everything was designed to keep nothing from spilling over.

Hudson walked to the empty seat beside François and sat down carefully, as if any sudden movement might set something off.

And then he saw it.

François had his phone in hand, the screen lit, his thumb hovering motionless above it. He wasn’t typing. He wasn’t scrolling. Just holding it like an anchor—or a lifeline.

That tiny detail twisted Hudson’s stomach with unexpected violence.

He’s got the fucking phone, Hudson thought, a mix of anger, helplessness, and something dangerously close to resentment. He has it right there. And he still won’t text Connor.

Hudson and Connor had barely spoken those days. A few scattered messages. Bullshit. Phrases that said nothing and everything at the same time. A clumsy way of pretending normalcy. Of holding onto—without saying it out loud—the idea that some distance was necessary. Prudent. Healthy, even.

Hudson knew—because he knew—that the moment François broke the silence, Connor would tell him.

“Hey,” Hudson said, breaking the silence before the impulse could die in his throat.

François looked up, startled, and regret hit immediately. Hudson cursed himself silently—not for speaking, but for what he saw.

François looked wrecked. Not tired from a long night. Not distracted by work. Destroyed. Deep dark circles. Dull skin. A constant tension in his jaw. The posture of someone who hadn’t slept properly in days and had been thinking even worse.

“Hey,” François replied, adjusting in his seat and pocketing his phone almost automatically, like it suddenly burned. Judging by his expression, he hadn’t expected to see Hudson there either.

“New modeling gig?” Hudson asked, forcing a light tone he absolutely did not feel.

“Not that new,” François replied, managing a weak, incomplete smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable, packed with things neither of them wanted to say first. Hudson knew that, based on what Connor had told him, François had every reason to assume—correctly—that Hudson knew everything.

Maybe his presence was just salt in the wound. Another confirmation of everything François had been chewing on for a while. But Hudson couldn’t stop thinking that the punishment of silence was worse. Crueler. More cowardly.

And Connor… Connor wasn’t built for that.

When the silence became unbearable, Hudson stopped being careful.

“If it’s going to be awkward, let it be fucking awkward,” he thought.

“Are you okay?” he asked, even knowing it wasn’t the place or the moment.

François frowned, his jaw tightening like he was grinding something bitter.

“What do you think?” he snapped.

Hudson let out a slow breath. They’d always gotten along. Not close friends, but there was respect. During filming—and later, when François started dating Connor—that bond had tightened.

Hudson had believed—with an innocence that now felt almost pathetic—that that relationship could exist on its own.

Seeing the rigidity in François’s body now, he doubted everything.

“You look fucked,” Hudson said finally, bluntly. “Like absolute shit, to be precise.”

François let out a short laugh, humorless.

“Not sleeping doesn’t exactly help.”

Hudson tilted his head, watching him closely, measuring the edge of what he was about to say.

“Neither does,” he added, with an ironic half-smile, “ignoring messages like that’s some kind of valid emotional strategy.”

François pressed his lips together.

“Are you going to beat around the bush?”

“Why?” Hudson replied calmly, tension laced through his voice. “You already get it.”

“Why don’t you mind your own fucking business, Hudson,” François snapped, raising his voice and breaking the silent code of the place. Several heads turned.

Hudson felt heat rush to his face—a mix of embarrassment and anger.

“No,” he said, lowering his voice but not his tone. “Not when it’s my—”

“Best friend?” François cut him off, exhaustion dripping from every word. “I’m sick of the shit between you two.”

Something cracked.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” Hudson snapped, no longer hiding his anger.

François stared at him with raw intensity, tightening the air between them. For a second, Hudson thought he’d stand up, that everything would explode right there, in the middle of marble floors and prying eyes.

He didn’t even have time to react when Elena appeared, clearly alerted by the tone.

“We have to go,” she said firmly to Hudson.

“Yeah,” he replied, standing up and breaking eye contact with François. “Sure.”

He took a couple of steps toward the elevators, but Elena grabbed his arm urgently.

“No,” she whispered. “We need to leave. Now.”

“And the meeting?” Hudson asked, frowning.

“They pulled out,” she replied quietly. “They said it’s no longer necessary.”

Hudson wasn’t particularly attached to modeling—but those words sounded final. Like a door slamming shut without warning.

“Why?”

Elena intertwined her fingers with his and gently pulled him toward the exit.

“Come on,” she said. “We need to talk.”

Elena didn’t slow her pace until the glass doors of Hermès were behind them and the elegant murmur of the interior was replaced by the raw noise of the street. The cold air hit Hudson’s face, but it wasn’t enough to clear his head. His body still felt tense, as if he were still sitting beside François, as if the conversation hadn’t been interrupted but merely suspended, waiting to resume at any moment.

“What do you mean, they pulled out?” he finally asked, once they were halfway to the car.

Elena opened the passenger door and motioned for him to get in before walking around the vehicle. Hudson obeyed, his jaw still clenched. The inside of the car smelled like coffee and expensive perfume—a combination that usually felt familiar, even calming. Not today.

Elena got in, closed the door, and took a few seconds before starting the engine. Hudson knew that silence: it was the one that came before bad news.

“It means someone talked too much,” she said finally, pulling into traffic. “Or that someone decided they don’t want complications.”

“What kind of complications?” Hudson turned toward her, incredulous. “It’s a campaign, not a fucking international treaty.”

Elena sighed.

“It’s not just a campaign. These are big brands, Hudson. And big brands hate noise when they can’t control it.”

Hudson let out a short, bitter laugh.

“I think someone’s started moving pieces,” she added after a moment. “And not from Hermès.”

Hudson turned fully toward her, frowning.

“CAA?”

Elena didn’t look at him, but she didn’t deny it either.

“I don’t have a direct call confirming it,” she replied, “but it’s the usual pattern. When a big agency feels like it’s losing control over one of its assets, it starts subtle.”

“Subtle?” Hudson scoffed. “I just got dropped from a campaign with no explanation.”

“That’s subtle for them,” Elena shot back. “Today it’s a campaign. Tomorrow it’s a cover you ‘suddenly’ don’t fit anymore. The day after that, a brand that decides to wait until ‘things clear up.’”

Hudson leaned back against the seat, dragging a hand over his face.

“And all of this because we didn’t sign that fucking duo deal?”

“In part,” she nodded. “You turned down something that was very profitable for CAA. And when you say no to something like that, they stop seeing you as just talent and start seeing you as a potential problem.”

“We’re not a packaged product,” Hudson muttered. “We made that clear.”

“And that’s the problem,” Elena said. “They do see you that way. You and Connor. Together you sell more. Separately, they need to make sure you’re still… manageable.”

A knot tightened in Hudson’s chest.

“So now they’re going to start squeezing us?”

“Not all at once,” she clarified. “They never do. They start small. Vague comments. Opportunities that fall through ‘for unrelated reasons.’ Brands that get the message that working with you might bring unnecessary noise.”

“And Hermès decided not to deal with that?”

“Hermès decided not to get involved in a potential silent war between agencies,” Elena corrected. “They’ve got enough money and prestige to choose the most comfortable option.”

Hudson clenched his fists against his thighs.

“They can manipulate things that easily?”

“They have money, contacts, and power,” she replied bluntly. “They don’t need to give explicit orders. Suggesting is enough. Letting the idea drop that certain narratives could spiral out of control. Brands listen. Always.”

Silence settled in again, heavy. Hudson couldn’t stop his mind from going back to François in the waiting room: the phone in his hand, the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. Everything felt connected by an invisible thread that someone else was pulling.

“So this isn’t just about me,” he said slowly. “It’s also about Connor.”

Elena eased off the gas slightly.

“Exactly. As long as you keep appearing together, as long as you keep refusing to play the game the way they want, CAA is going to try to steer the situation. First with indirect pressure. Then… we’ll see.”

“Great,” Hudson muttered. “So they start fucking with our work to see if we cave. Cut us off until it feels like the only solution is doing the shit they want?”

“To see which one of you gets tired first,” she confirmed.

Hudson closed his eyes for a moment. He thought of Connor. Of how easy it was to understand each other, how well they worked without even planning it. Of how much it would hurt to have someone try to turn that into a weakness. Of how unfair it was that something as genuine as their friendship was being turned into bargaining currency.

“So what am I supposed to do?” he asked, his voice lower now.

“For now,” Elena said, “nothing impulsive. Don’t feed any narrative. And above all, don’t make emotional decisions thinking they’ll fix everything.” She paused. “Tomorrow I’ll go talk to them, try to find a way to reach some kind of agreement without being too direct about what I suspect they’re doing.” She looked at Hudson. “Try to relax.”

Hudson let out a dry laugh.

“Shitty timing for that request.”

Elena parked by the curb and turned off the engine. She turned to him, serious.

“Hudson, listen to me,” she said, lowering her voice—not out of secrecy, but care. “Everything I’ve told you is speculation. Not certainty.”

Hudson turned his head slightly toward her, focused.

“They’re readings,” she continued. “Intuitions that come from years in the industry, from having seen how CAA moves before. I know how they’ve operated in other cases, I know what they’re capable of… but right now”—she made a vague gesture with her hand—“this could just be testing.”

“Testing?” Hudson repeated.

“Yes. Seeing how far you bend. How much you can take. The second season hasn’t even started filming yet, and the third is still ahead. It doesn’t benefit them to burn you now, not openly. That would be sloppy, even for them.”

Elena took a breath before continuing.

“If they do anything, it’ll be subtler. Small. Campaigns that don’t hurt them, but do hurt you as individuals. Opportunities that fall through ‘by chance.’ Calls that never come. Things like that.”

Hudson tightened his jaw.

“To wear us down,” he said.

“To make you doubt,” she corrected. “Yourselves. Your decisions. The bond you have.”

Silence settled in once more, heavy. Hudson stared out the window without really seeing anything.

“And there’s another possibility,” Elena added more slowly. “That I’m overinterpreting everything. That Hermès dropped the campaign for internal reasons and that’s it. Sometimes it happens. There isn’t always a villain.”

Hudson let out a short, humorless laugh.

“And do you believe that?”

Elena didn’t answer right away. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel once.

“I think,” she said finally, “that even if this time it’s nothing, the ground is already marked. And when you’re at that point, it’s better to act like someone’s watching. Not to live in fear—but not to be naïve.”

Hudson nodded slowly, though he wasn’t sure he knew how he was supposed to balance all of that.

“Come on,” Elena said, opening the door. “Eat something. Even if you’re not hungry.”

Hudson stepped out of the car with an uncomfortable, almost oppressive feeling: the certainty that beyond brands, agencies, and power, someone was starting to meddle where they didn’t belong. And that, for the first time, his bond with Connor wasn’t just emotionally at stake—but had become a battlefield others were more than willing to use.

Chapter 4: Tangled

Chapter Notes

Content Warning: This chapter includes explicit sexual scenes.. Please proceed only if you are comfortable with adult material.

CHAPTER IV

At some point, Hudson realized he was dreaming. He knew because he was on the sofa in his apartment with Connor, and he could see every detail as if it were real. Connor was wearing the hoodie and pants Hudson had lent him that day they’d eaten sushi; the clothes fit his body perfectly, hiding his small waist but accentuating his hips in a way Hudson couldn’t stop looking at. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared clothes. Some of Connor’s pieces were in Hudson’s closet, and his missing clothes were probably in Connor’s.

But Hudson didn’t know he was dreaming because of the physical distance—Connor was in Los Angeles, he was in Paris—but because of the sensation in his thigh: Connor’s hand pressed there, firm, demanding contact, while their chests brushed together and Connor’s tongue traced wet and slow across his neck, leaving a trail that made every muscle in Hudson tense.

Hudson tilted his head back, giving him full access, then let his fingers tangle in Connor’s curls, squeezing hard without causing pain, gently tugging him closer to his mouth. The kiss was hungry, desperate, as if they were both trying to satisfy a need that couldn’t wait. Hudson didn’t hesitate to respond, sliding his tongue into Connor’s mouth, claiming attention, wanting more.

Connor’s hands greedily rose to the edge of Hudson’s hoodie, pulling it over his head and exposing his chest. Connor kissed his neck again, tracing from collarbone to hardened nipples, licking, biting, sucking; Hudson held back moans that eventually escaped without shame. Hudson mirrored him, pulling off Connor’s hoodie and letting his hands explore the skin he’d touched many times but never like this, in intimacy. He lost himself in the paleness of his skin and the little freckles that adorned it, thinking Connor was unbelievably beautiful, almost like a mythical hero materialized in front of him.

In an instant, Hudson was on his back on the sofa, legs spread to receive Connor’s still-clothed hips, and their throbbing, hard erections rubbed over the fabric of their pants, the growing wetness marking every movement. Every touch was a reminder of the forbidden and impossible, and Hudson felt a deep heat running through his entire body.

Then, suddenly, he opened his eyes. He wasn’t in his apartment but in a Paris Airbnb room. His eyelids ached from the sudden movement, and a cold panic swept his stomach: Kiley, his girlfriend, was sleeping beside him. Hudson looked down, and reality hit him like a fist: his erection wasn’t a dream. Throbbing and hard, pressed against his pants, it reminded him that his body had reacted without control.

“Holy shit,” he murmured, heart racing a mile a minute. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

He waited—no… he practically begged the universe that Kiley didn’t notice. His body was on high alert, as if every fiber of his being knew what had happened in his mind. The guilt devoured him, a hot knot climbing from his stomach to his throat, crushing his calm. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d woken up hard; Kiley had always been understanding, patient, even playful to help him relax. But this time… this time was different. This time, the cause was someone else, someone who wasn’t his girlfriend, and if Kiley found out, Hudson would be a complete asshole for letting the fantasy continue at her expense.

With measured, slow movements, he slid out of bed, making sure not to brush anything that could make a sound and wake Kiley. His feet touched the cold floor, and a shiver ran down his back. He walked to the bathroom carefully, leaning lightly on the door frame to avoid even the slightest noise. Each step reminded him of how stiff he was, how hard his dick throbbed under the fabric of his boxers, every bump against his body sending uncomfortable, urgent heat through him.

He leaned on the marble sink and looked at himself in the mirror. His face was puffy, eyes red, eyelids heavy, but his pupils shone with a mix of surprise, desire, and guilt. A knot formed in his stomach, traveling with every breath to his throat, and he swallowed, trying to ignore the trembling of his body. Goddamn it, this couldn’t be real.

To say he’d never dreamed of Connor would be a lie. During the first season of Heated Rivalry, dreams had been frequent, but always in the context of work: series scenes, invented characters, controlled situations. Never had it been this intimate, never had he felt Connor’s body brushing against his outside of fiction, never had he felt the urgency and tension of desire mixed with guilt this way.

Hudson’s gaze dropped to his erection. Hard, sore, throbbing violently against the fabric. The pressure mounted, and for a moment, the thought of ignoring it and waiting for it to subside was tempting… until the discomfort and urgency pierced his mind. He needed to take care of it, if only to calm the fire running through his body. Every fiber screamed that he couldn’t go on like this, that he couldn’t pretend indifference while his body responded so intensely to a dream that had crossed all the lines of imagination.

A shiver ran through him as he leaned over the sink, hands on the cold marble. The contrast between the marble’s chill and the heat in his crotch made him gasp lightly, and for a moment he closed his eyes, allowing himself to acknowledge the reality of what he was feeling.

“Fuck…” he whispered, voice hoarse and tense. “This… this can’t be happening.”

The pulse in his cock throbbed with each beat of his heart. Hudson took a deep breath, trying to stay calm, but every inhale reminded him of the need consuming him. He knew what had to be done. There was only one way to relieve the pressure that had him on the edge of desperation.

He tugged his boxers down to his ankles, staring at his reflection in the mirror: erect, rigid, skin glistening with arousal. The sight of himself like that, so vulnerable and yet so intense, sent a wave of desire that made him gasp.

With the palm of his hand stroking the shaft, he began slowly at first, just to release the unbearable pressure that left him dizzy. Every motion burned the tip of his dick, every pressure, every slide was a reminder of the dream and what his body had wanted so desperately. He bit his lips to keep moans quiet, now soft and controlled, as his arousal built, rising to an almost painful peak.

Hudson closed his eyes, letting his mind unconsciously replay fragments of the dream: Connor’s mouth, his hands, the warmth and wetness of the other’s skin. Each image made him arch more, each memory bringing him closer to the edge, hips moving reflexively, seeking more friction, more relief. Finally, when the tension became unbearable, he gave in to climax, shuddering from head to toe, spilling hot, heavy cum onto his hand, dripping onto his palm and landing on his wrinkled boxers, as he gasped, body trembling, eyes closed.

He breathed deeply, letting calm return slowly, skin sensitive, muscles still shaking. He cleaned himself carefully, still processing the intensity of what had just happened, tossing the soiled underwear into the laundry basket. He looked in the mirror again, his reflection giving back a mixture of guilt and unsatisfied need.

“God…” Hudson whispered to himself, rubbing his eyes and trying to collect himself. “This… this is a fucking mess.”

He slid slowly down the wall until he was crouched on the cold bathroom floor. The tile against his back and legs reminded him of how real it all was. He grabbed his hair with such force his fingers sank into his scalp, as if he needed something to hold onto while his inner world fell apart. He crossed his arms over his knees, burying his head, letting the sobs take him without resistance. It wasn’t just sadness or guilt—it was a viscous mix of desire, shame, and despair that strangled him from chest to throat. His heart pounded violently, and he felt breathless, every inhale insufficient to calm the whirlwind consuming him.

What the fuck was wrong with him? The question echoed in his head, a reverberation he couldn’t silence. His body still burned, the memories of the dream and his recent erection scorching him with every beat. And Kiley was on the other side of the door, sleeping soundly, oblivious to the storm Hudson dragged inside him. They’d planned this vacation to reaffirm their love, to reconnect—and he was here, in a Paris Airbnb bathroom, sinking into a chaos of guilt and desire, trembling from an orgasm he’d had thinking of someone else.

He felt miserable, disgusting even to himself. Every thought of Connor, every memory of how he had imagined him, filled him with revulsion toward his own mind and body, as if desire were a traitor mocking him.

His hands shook on his knees, and for a moment he wished he could rip that feeling from inside, erase Connor’s image from his mind—but he knew it was useless. Guilt and desire were intertwined, tangled in a way that made him feel small, vulnerable, and utterly exposed, even if no one was there to see.

He breathed deeply, trying to calm down, but even then, the awareness of what had happened—the intensity of his own impulses—kept him anchored in that knot of emotions.

Hudson didn’t just feel guilty for Kiley, for letting his body respond to thoughts unrelated to their relationship, but also for Connor. His best friend, the person with whom he shared laughs, secrets, and frustrations… was now the center of a silent betrayal only he knew.

The sobs gradually subsided, but the guilt remained, sticking like a second skin. Hudson knew he would have to pull himself together, return to the room, to Kiley, and pretend nothing had happened, while the memory of Connor lingered, latent and charged, in some forbidden corner of his mind.

***

Connor was deeply asleep when he heard the living room door close with excessive care—the kind of care that screams “don’t notice me.” Then came the bags hitting the kitchen counter, the faint crunch of plastic, and finally the unmistakable sound of windows opening, letting in the early Los Angeles sun.

He opened his eyes halfway, still caught in that thick limbo between sleep and wakefulness. He turned his head and focused on the wall clock across from the bed: 7:30 a.m.

“Fuck…” he murmured, his voice rough.

He had been clear with Tyler the night before. He wanted to sleep in. No filming, no obligations, no reason whatsoever to get up early. But there she was, completely ignoring his request, as if the concept of “sleeping in” were a mere decorative suggestion.

Connor had lived with his sister for years in Los Angeles, before he could afford his own apartment in West Hollywood. A space that, ironically, had felt alien for months. Cold. Empty. Since he’d stayed in Vancouver with François, the place had only survived thanks to Tyler’s intermittent visits, where she’d more or less remembered to water the plants. Still, several had ended up dry, wilted, as if even they resented his absence.

He got up before Tyler could make enough noise to force him awake. Connor wasn’t a morning person. Never had been. He was active, yes, but he needed time. A couple of hours for his brain to sync properly with his body, for the world to stop feeling like an unnecessary assault.

Dragging his feet, he entered the bathroom and stopped in front of the mirror. The reflection made him frown: dark circles, messy hair, the tired expression of someone who’d been sleeping poorly for days. He leaned on the sink and lowered his head for a few seconds.

He was exhausted. Not physically, but in that deeper way that a nap can’t fix.

Only a week remained before returning to Canada, and this time in Los Angeles had been a constant parade of distractions: birthdays, impromptu dinners, beach days, entire afternoons with his sister, long video calls with his mom, short but intense calls with his dad, quick messages with Hudson. Everything except what he really needed.

And still, no word from François.

The certainty settled in his chest with a dull weight: they had probably broken up.

He remembered one of those nights out with Tyler and her friends. He’d drunk too much. Way more than he should have. Enough to lose his shame and caution. Enough to call François multiple times and send messages he’d reread the next day with a knot in his stomach.

François didn’t have read receipts on, but Connor knew. He knew with a bitter certainty.

He had read them.

And still, he hadn’t answered.

Connor closed his eyes in front of the mirror, letting out a slow, heavy sigh. All the unspoken things between them had accumulated in his body like a constant tension, a wait that was starting to feel definitive.

He brushed his teeth too hard, as if he could erase more than the bad taste in his mouth. He was especially rough on his tongue until the sensation was almost uncomfortable. Then he washed his face, cold water sliding over his skin, and finally stepped into the shower.

He wanted Tyler to wait.

So he deliberately took his time. He washed his hair slowly, massaging his scalp more than necessary, letting the hot water run down his back as he counted the seconds. No rush. He wasn’t ready.

When he left the bathroom, he followed his usual mechanical routine. He put on only a pair of shorts, nothing else. Applied some moisturizer to his arms, chest, neck, without thinking much. Dried his hair with a towel, roughly scrunching it, then wiped his ears, still distracted, still absent.

He opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hallway. His stomach flipped.

The sound that escaped his mouth was a choked “oh,” involuntary, as if all the air had left his lungs at once. The world seemed to tilt just a fraction, enough to completely unsettle him.

It wasn’t Tyler.

It was François.

He was standing in the living room, motionless, coat still on as if he hadn’t allowed himself to settle fully. His eyes were fixed on Connor—dark, tired, loaded with something he couldn’t immediately name. The silence between them was so dense it felt tangible.

“Took me more than a week,” François finally said, low, without breaking eye contact. “I’m sorry.”

Connor didn’t respond immediately. He was still there, towel in hand, wet hair dripping down his neck, heart pounding in his chest. Everything he had rehearsed to say over the past days evaporated in an instant.

Because François was here.

Really here.

Connor closed the distance in long, almost desperate strides. In recent days, he had been especially angry with François; a heavy, hard-to-swallow anger. He hadn’t believed he deserved the silence. It had seemed unfair, even violently so in its quietest form. It had sunk so deep that Connor had convinced himself that if François hadn’t broken up with him, he would do it himself once they met.

And yet, there he was.

Moving instinctively, his body betraying rational decisions, almost wanting to throw himself into his arms. His throat tightened with a harsh, painful knot, making even breathing difficult. Everything he had bottled up over these days—the anger, the sadness, the uncertainty—piled up in his chest.

François opened his arms almost instinctively and received Connor in an embrace. He held him just a second too long. It wasn’t a clean, simple hug; there was stiffness at first, a fraction of doubt in the way his arms wrapped around Connor, as if his body reacted before his head could catch up. Then he squeezed with a force bordering on desperate.

Connor fit against him like that space had been empty too long. François closed his eyes.

The contact hit him sharply in the chest. No relief. Not fully. It was an uncomfortable mix of need and something scratching inside, like a poorly healed wound someone had just touched unintentionally.

“I missed you so much, damn it,” Connor murmured, voice muffled against his chest.

That almost broke him.

François tensed his jaw, swallowing the automatic response he wanted to give. Me too. The word weighed on his tongue as if he had no right to say it so easily. Still, his hands moved on their own, tracing Connor’s back again and again, as if needing to verify he was there, that he wasn’t a construct of his guilt.

When he pulled back, he did it slowly, with a caution unusual for him. He cupped Connor’s face in his hands, but not with the usual certainty—rather, with a strange, almost restrained delicacy. As if touching him was something that needed measuring.

Connor watched him, open, vulnerable, eyes shining like someone who had waited too long.

François held that gaze just a second too long… and it was too much.

He leaned in and kissed him, but it wasn’t impulsive. Firm, yes, full of feeling, but controlled, as if forcing himself not to go further. Connor responded immediately, clutching him, and that made François feel an uncomfortable pang in his stomach.

He didn’t pull away. Nor did he deepen the kiss.

When they separated, he rested his forehead against Connor’s, breathing deeply, as if he needed air not to say something improper.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, voice lower than usual. “I didn’t… handle it.”

Connor frowned slightly.

“That’s not done,” he replied. “Not with me.”

François closed his eyes again. Nodded once.

“I know.”

He said nothing else. Didn’t explain. Didn’t defend himself.

But his hands stayed there, firm on Connor’s body, as if letting go would be worse than holding him with all that inner noise. There was love, yes. Too much. But there was also something that had no place and burned every time Connor approached without reservation.

Connor stepped closer, shrinking the space between them even further—if that was possible.

“Then look at me,” he asked. “And tell me you’re still here.”

François looked at him.

He looked at him as if trying to memorize him. As if he needed to. As if, in some awkward corner of himself, he knew he didn’t deserve the ease with which Connor was choosing him right now.

Connor didn’t wait for an answer. François’s silence didn’t feel like a refusal, just an unnecessary pause. With clumsy, rushed hands, he removed François’s coat, letting it fall somewhere on the floor without even looking. He went back to his mouth with urgency, as if the time apart had built up under the skin to become unbearable.

François responded to the kiss with desire, that was undeniable. His lips parted, his body reacted before his mind, and for a moment Connor felt that familiar burning closeness he had missed so much. His skin burned. He needed to feel him, touch him, dismantle him. He didn’t want to think, only reclaim.

He pressed closer, smiling through the kisses when he noticed the obvious hardness against his abdomen. His hands traced the familiar curves of François’s body, sliding over the skin with deliberate, teasing pressure, as if memorizing every reaction, every shiver, that escaped him.

“You really missed me,” he murmured, a mix of relief and soft triumph.

François let out a low sound from his throat, a mute affirmation, almost involuntary. His hands helped Connor fully remove the coat, tracing his sides with a memory that hadn’t faded. But there was a rigidity in his posture, a tension that wouldn’t fully release.

When Connor’s hands reached his waist and, with undisguised desperation, tried to undo his pants, the gesture changed.

François barely frowned, as if something pierced his thoughts, and took a step back.

The movement was minimal, but the effect was immediate.

Connor felt a sharp pinch in his chest. He doubted himself for a fraction of a second—maybe he’d gone too fast—and stepped forward again, sure that just touching him would suffice. He took his hips, seeking him, but François caught his hands firmly. Not roughly. Not violently.

“Wait,” he said, voice lower than expected.

Connor blinked, puzzled.

“What?” he complained, almost childlike, frustration spilling out—“We haven’t been together in weeks. I need…”

François closed his eyes for a second, as if that word weighed more than it should. When he looked at him again, there was something different in his expression: not a lack of desire. Conflict.

“We need to talk first,” he said.

Connor’s face fell slightly.

Talk?

Yes, of course they needed to talk. Too much had been stuck in their throats, too many silences accumulated to pretend nothing had happened. But the contradiction unsettled him: it was François asking for words while their bodies betrayed them, while the tension was so evident it almost hurt.

“But…” Connor tried, voice loaded with frustration. “Fran, I—”

François lowered his head slightly, choosing his words carefully. When he looked at him again, his eyes were soft, almost pleading, and that unexpected gentleness hit Connor’s chest harder than any rejection.

“Babe… can we talk?” he asked.

The word fell slow, heavy. Connor felt desire shift in his body, something inside giving in reluctantly. Damn it. François always knew how to disarm him without touching him.

Connor exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, though a crooked smile escaped anyway.

“Fine,” he yielded. “But you’ll have to make it up later.”

He pointed with his index finger at the bedroom door, a gesture loaded with promise more than jest.

François held the gaze a second too long. His smile was brief, almost fragile, and the way he swallowed didn’t go unnoticed. He leaned in and pressed a short kiss to Connor’s lips, soft, contained, as if forcing himself not to stay there.

“Later,” he repeated, in a low voice.

François was sprawled across the sofa, taking up more space than necessary, as if the exhaustion of the past few days had settled into his body and refused to leave. Connor lay across his chest, diagonally, one leg intertwined with his, a hand tracing slow, almost distracted circles on his boyfriend’s thigh.

They had talked about everything and nothing. About what hurt and what they hadn’t known how to say in time. About recent arguments, replaying them like misunderstood scenes from a movie they had both watched from different angles. Connor had made an almost superhuman effort not to mention— not even by accident—Hudson’s name. He had just reconciled with his boyfriend; starting a new fight at that moment would have been pathetic. Self-destructive.

Though he knew, with uncomfortable clarity, that sooner or later he would have to talk about it. Hudson wasn’t someone Connor could—or wanted to—erase from his life. No matter how much it annoyed François. What he could do—and he knew it—was reconsider his boundaries, reorder priorities, think more about his boyfriend. And that… that he was willing to do.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was warm. Almost healing.

“You know I even texted Sophie to see if you were with her,” Connor said suddenly, without looking up, as if letting the words slip casually.

François tensed slightly, just enough for Connor to feel it under his cheek. He smiled, because he knew that gesture; he knew it was both surprising and revealing that his boyfriend had swallowed his pride and gone to ask someone else.

“Did she reply?” François asked, feigning calm.

“Of course.”

“And what did she say?”

Connor chuckled softly. He propped himself up slightly, moving away from François’s chest to look him directly in the eyes. He rested his forearm on the sofa, supporting his weight, and watched him with a mixture of irony and affection.

“Well, guess what?” he huffed. “That you weren’t with her.”

François nodded, downplaying it, as if that part of the story didn’t deserve much attention.

“So… where were you all this time?”

François lowered his gaze. He sighed. There was a brief silence before he met Connor’s eyes again, this time with a different, more cautious expression.

“Promise you won’t hate me for what I’m about to tell you?”

Connor’s stomach clenched sharply. A sudden, absurd nausea rose through his chest.

“Wh… what?” he stammered.

François studied him for a few seconds, examining his reaction carefully, as if measuring how far he could push the rope. Then he leaned back, resting his head on the sofa, and laughed softly, containing a bigger chuckle.

“I stayed in a suite at the JW Marriott.”

“Go to hell,” Connor said immediately, eyes wide. “You’re a damn spender.”

François laughed openly, naturally, the kind of laugh you can’t fake. The sound made something warm spread through Connor’s chest, relaxing him without permission.

“How much did you spend on this fight?” Connor asked, half joking, half serious.

“Are you going to give me half?”

“I can give it to you,” Connor replied without hesitation. “I stayed at your place.”

François stopped laughing. He sat up slightly and turned him carefully to see him face to face, a firm hand on his side.

“Don’t say that,” he said seriously. “I didn’t want this to be worse. I wanted you to stay in my space, you understand? So you wouldn’t feel like I was pushing you out.”

Connor held his gaze. He used the movement to settle back on him, pressing his body against François’s again. His fingers resumed the familiar path over François’s thigh, this time with a little more intention.

“I know,” he murmured. “That’s why I stayed.”

François rested his forehead against his, closing his eyes for a moment. The conflict hadn’t disappeared entirely, but at least in that moment, they weren’t running from each other. And that was something.

“I ran into Hudson.”

The phrase fell between them with unexpected weight.

Connor felt a sharp hit to his chest. Oh, oh. He silently begged the universe, almost desperately, that if he had shown any reaction—a minimal stiffness, a change in breathing, any sign—François hadn’t noticed. At the same time, something twisted inside him, an uncomfortable knot closing his stomach.

Hudson hadn’t told him anything.

“Really?” Connor replied, forcing a casual tone that didn’t convince even him. “Where?”

François hesitated barely a second. He seemed to debate whether to leave it there or push a little further. In the end, he kept talking.

“At Hermès,” he clarified, clearing his throat. “But…”

Connor froze. He knew Hudson had a meeting at Hermès for a campaign. He had mentioned it a few days ago, casually, as if not wanting to give it too much importance. What he didn’t know—or what didn’t add up—was that François had to go there too.

“Did they call you from Hermès?” he managed to ask carefully.

François nodded.

“They gave me a campaign to model the new collection.”

Connor’s reaction was immediate and sincere. The tension in his body eased enough to allow a real smile. He deeply admired François; he loved seeing him succeed, seeing doors open, especially in something he clearly enjoyed. Even though his core was acting, modeling had always been an important part of his identity, and Connor knew it.

He leaned in and kissed him softly, a congratulatory gesture.

“That’s amazing,” he murmured.

“However…” François hesitated. “I don’t know if I should say it.”

Connor lifted his head immediately.

“What?”

François hesitated again, licking his lower lip, uncomfortable.

“It’s nothing,” he finally said, though the tone betrayed him. “I just had the slight impression that they gave me a campaign that was originally meant for Hudson.”

Connor went blank for a second.

“What do you mean?” he asked, suddenly confused, unease growing. “Why do you think that?”

“I don’t really know,” François replied, shrugging lightly. “There was nothing explicit. It was just a feeling…”—he looked at him carefully—“Didn’t he tell you anything?”

Connor shook his head slowly. He looked away almost immediately, fixing on anything that wasn’t his boyfriend’s face. He didn’t want to talk about Hudson now. Not after making up, not when the atmosphere between them felt fragile, newly rebuilt.

“No,” he finally said. “He didn’t say anything.”

But the unease had already settled in his chest.

He tried to convince himself it meant nothing. Hudson would have said something, right? He always did. Or at least, he used to. Though technically they were in that awkward tacit agreement to keep some distance, this… this mattered. And the fact that he hadn’t mentioned anything felt suddenly disturbing.

What if François was right?

Connor shook his head to himself, trying to push the thought away. Hudson wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t hide something like this. Not from him.

Connor decided to put his recent worry about Hudson in an invisible box, carefully closing it and mentally pushing it to the back of his mind. Not the time. Not now. He slowly straightened and looked at his boyfriend with a mischievous spark in his eyes, a lopsided smile François knew all too well.

“Should we celebrate?” he asked, in a light tone that left little doubt as to what he meant.

François barely had time to react. Connor got off the sofa and, without asking, straddled him, settling naturally over his thighs. His hands roamed François’s bare torso, following the familiar lines of his chest, the warm texture of his skin, as if needing to reaffirm that he was there, that they were real, that this moment belonged to them.

He leaned in to kiss him, slow at first, almost teasing. François responded immediately, with a contained urgency that had been building for days. His hands slid to Connor’s hips and then to his ass, squeezing to draw him closer, to eliminate any remaining space.

Connor’s shorts strained against his thighs due to their position, marking his movements and making it harder for François to go further than the fabric allowed. That small obstacle only added a delicious layer of frustration. Connor smiled against his mouth before breaking the kiss and starting a slow trail of touches and kisses down his neck.

He descended patiently, over the collarbone, the center of his chest, leaving calculated, distracted kisses as he moved with intention, until he was kneeling in front of him. François watched from above, expression a mix of desire and something harder to decipher, as if part of him wanted to stop him and another part refused outright.

Connor didn’t stop.

He grabbed the waistband of François’s jeans and began unbuttoning them with confident, almost defiant movements. The gesture made François tighten his jaw, conflicted, caught between impulse and doubt. Connor chose to ignore the hesitation.

“Relax,” he murmured, not looking up.

He signaled him to lift his pelvis slightly, making it easier, and pulled the jeans down, leaving them aside. Boxers were exposed, revealing his obvious reaction. Connor wasn’t surprised; instead, a satisfied smile spread across his lips.

He rested his hands on François’s thighs, feeling the heat emanating from him, the latent tension in every muscle. He lifted his gaze, holding his stare for a long second, charged with intent.

François swallowed.

Connor pulled down François’s boxers decisively, until his cock was completely free, heavy and erect, hitting the lower part of his stomach. François immediately threw his head back and let out a deep, dense sigh, as if the air had been trapped in his chest too long.

“Fuck…” he murmured, voice broken.

Connor didn’t give him time to recover. He leaned forward, sliding his tongue slowly from the base to the tip, exploring every inch with a deliberation that made François’s body tense completely. This time, he didn’t hold back a moan; the sound came out rough, uncontrollable, and his hips reacted instinctively, seeking more.

François brought both hands to Connor’s head, clutching his hair urgently—not to guide him, but to stop him. The conflict was evident even in that gesture.

“No… wait,” he pleaded, breath ragged, voice trembling.

But Connor had waited long enough.

He had waited through painful silences, unanswered messages, sleepless nights wondering if he still had a place there. This time, he wouldn’t stop. With a swift movement, he pushed François’s hands from his head and took his cock firmly, bringing it straight to his mouth.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful.

He took him all at once, deep, without warning, all the way down his throat. François let out a long, broken moan, his body reacting uncontrollably. His thighs tensed, his abdomen contracted, and any resistance he had tried to maintain crumbled instantly.

“Connor…” he gasped, unable to say more.

François’s hands clutched the back of the sofa, knuckles white, as his breathing became erratic. Pleasure washed through him in waves, mixed with a dull guilt that couldn’t stop the impulse. He closed his eyes, surrendering, letting himself fall into the sensation, even though a part of him knew he was using desire as a refuge.

Connor lifted his gaze for only a second, watching him from below, making sure he saw him surrendered, present, responding. Then he focused again, moving with rhythm, with hunger, determined to take him to the edge.

François didn’t ask him to stop again.

Connor continued until François’s hands pushed him away. He was about to finish and knew Connor hated swallowing it. So Connor watched as his boyfriend used his hand for the final moments, breathing ragged, body tense, until the semen spilled onto his stomach.

François didn’t give him much time to process it. He pulled Connor into his arms and stood him in front of his still-warm body. He dropped Connor´s shorts and immediately noticed he wasn’t wearing boxers. Connor’s throbbing erection collided with his lips just as François opened his mouth to take him fully.

Connor let out a low sigh, guiding François’s head with the familiarity of someone who knew exactly what he liked. He set the rhythm, the depth, the way he wanted him to move his head: back and forth, up and down, until the tip brushed his throat.

The movements became faster, more urgent. The tingling in his balls and the growing pressure in his lower abdomen warned him he was about to come. He tried to pull away instinctively, but François held him firmly by the hips, staying still until the fluid slid into his mouth.

Then he swallowed.

The silence that followed was thick, barely interrupted by their uneven breathing. Their chests rose and fell forcefully, as if they had run an impossible distance. François had his eyes closed, head resting on the back of the sofa, completely spent.

There were visible traces of the mess they had just made: warm semen on François’s skin, the wet shine marking his lower abdomen, undeniable evidence of how far they had gone. Connor watched for a second longer than necessary, a mix of uncomfortable satisfaction and something that squeezed his chest.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, unhurried. His body was warm, thighs tired, a slight pressure in his jaw.

François slowly opened his eyes.

“Fuck…” he murmured, with a brief laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Come here.”

Connor didn’t hesitate to fall into his arms.

***

Hudson was lying on his back on the Airbnb bed, one arm draped over his head, his phone resting casually on his chest, waiting for Kiley to finish getting ready. From the bathroom came the sound of the hairdryer and some song she was humming without much effort. It was the last day of the trip, and they had decided to spend it entirely outside, unhurried, as a way to squeeze the most out of that brief feeling of escape. They had plans for brunch at HolyBelly, one of those places Kiley had been excitedly mentioning for days.

The phone vibrated against his chest, startling him. Seeing Connor’s name on the screen made him open his eyes immediately.

The message was a photo of François.

Hudson propped himself up on the bed almost instinctively, leaning on one elbow as he zoomed in on the image. François was in the kitchen, wearing low black joggers and completely bare-chested. The fabric hugged his thighs in a casually intimate way, as if the photo had been meant for no one but Connor. From the framing, he was preparing breakfast; part of the countertop was visible, a pan in the background, the calm domestic scene of a shared morning.

Connor had attached a simple caption:
“Cheers to the Dead Rising!”

Hudson exhaled through his nose, a brief, automatic smile forming on his face before he could stop it. It was Connor’s way of saying the silence had broken. That François was back. That, in the end, Hudson had been right: Connor would tell him when it happened.

And yet, the relief wasn’t pure.

Hudson held the phone a few seconds longer than necessary, unsure of how to respond. He wasn’t certain whether what he felt was genuine happiness for his best friend’s reconciliation or something murkier, harder to name, twisting in his chest.

Then, like a low blow, memories of the dream returned.

The image of Connor, the impossible touch, the abrupt awakening, the still-fresh guilt in his body. Hudson shook his head as if he could expel the thoughts that way, a nearly ridiculous reaction, like a dog suddenly splashed with water on its face.

Not now. Not with this.

He was glad, yes. He truly was. Because it meant Connor was okay, happy, had reclaimed something he needed. And that should have been enough.

With tense fingers, he finally typed a reply, choosing irony as a refuge:
“Is that breakfast or are you just flexing shamelessly to humiliate the rest of the world?”

He sent the message before thinking too much.

Connor replied almost instantly… as always:
“Breakfast. But if the world feels humiliated, collateral damage.”

Hudson barely smiled. He locked the phone and set it aside, taking a deep breath just as he heard Kiley moving in the bathroom.

“Babe?” Kiley called from inside.

Hudson reacted immediately, hurrying down the hall. He found her from behind, in front of the mirror, struggling to close the zipper on her dress.

“Can you help me?” she asked, turning her head slightly.

Hudson carefully grasped the zipper and pulled it up slowly, focusing on not pinching the fabric or her skin. When he finished, he looked up and met their reflections in the mirror.

The image gave him an unexpected sense of calm.

Kiley in front of him, put together, radiant. Him behind her, hands still resting lightly on her back. Hudson wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her gently toward him, pressing their bodies together. He kissed the hollow of her neck, right where the skin was exposed, inhaling her scent.

“You look beautiful,” he said, and he meant it.

Kiley smiled and turned to face him, naturally wrapping her arms around his neck.

“We’re a power couple,” she said playfully. “Too good-looking for this world.”

Hudson let out a low laugh before leaning down to kiss her, a short, warm kiss, unhurried, one of those that didn’t need to prove anything.

They left the Airbnb just after ten.

Hudson decided to lock his thoughts about Connor in a safe at the back of his mind. He turned the key carefully, as if the simple mental gesture could seal it all at once.

For some reason, the photo Connor had sent helped him stabilize a little, to sort out the noise. Seeing him well, accompanied, happy, had given him some clarity about how he felt… or at least, how he wanted to feel.

He thought about that day at his place. That strange, undefinable micro-moment he still couldn’t name without his chest tightening. Hudson decided—because sometimes deciding was enough—that it had been nothing. A misreading, a crossed signal amplified by exhaustion, proximity, and the constant pressure of knowing that in a few days they’d see each other every day for hours, pretending emotions that were starting to feel dangerously real.

The dream, he told himself, had been just a consequence of that. Of trying to give shape to something that had none. Of anxiety over the start of filming season two. It was normal. It could happen to anyone.

Possibly—he thought, seeking an acceptable explanation—seeing Connor so sad had triggered a protective instinct in him that had been misplaced. Nothing more. Emotional confusion poorly processed by a tired mind.

Hudson made himself a silent promise in that moment: whatever he had dreamed, and whatever he had done afterward, died that day in Paris. He had no intention of ruminating on feelings he didn’t have, or feeding absurd ideas just to indulge in a mental masturbation that led nowhere.

And somehow, that narrative worked.

Connor was happy with his boyfriend. And from now on, he would be happy with his girlfriend. Simple. Clean.

Still, he had to deal with the guilt that struck him every time he looked at Kiley. It was irrational—he knew—but he couldn’t shake it. For some reason he didn’t fully understand, he felt like he had been unfaithful. Seeing her smile at him, touch him confidently, without knowing that a few nights ago he had masturbated thinking about someone else, made his stomach turn. He felt like vomiting.

Crying in guilt that day hadn’t been enough to silence his conscience’s screams.

Hudson would never be unfaithful. Not consciously. He was certain of that. He knew he’d rather end the relationship—a thousand times over, no matter how painful—than cheat. But that certainty opened another uncomfortable question, one he didn’t know how to answer without hurting himself: didn’t that also mean he might hurt her?

Kiley loved him. And he loved her. Of course.

And yet, something inside him still felt off.

They arrived at HolyBelly, and the place was packed. The line spilled onto the sidewalk, bodies pressed together, coats brushing, overlapping voices forming a constant chaotic murmur. It smelled of freshly ground coffee, warm butter, toasted bread. The clinking of plates and cutlery set a nervous rhythm that made Hudson’s temples throb.

They waited several minutes—long, heavy ones, the kind that are felt in the body more than on the clock—before finally being seated. When the waiter pointed to the table by the window, Hudson felt almost childlike relief. Natural light. A small refuge.

“I don’t want to leave,” Kiley said as soon as they sat down, as if the thought had escaped her before she could stop it. “I also don’t want you to have to disappear so soon.”

She said it without drama, without reproach. As if stating an inevitable fact. Hudson immediately understood what she meant. She wasn’t just talking about the trip, Paris, or the brunch yet to arrive at the table. She was talking about what came next. Season two. Endless filming, chaotic schedules, days when they’d barely see each other beyond quick calls and late-night messages.

Hudson squeezed her hand across the table. That simple, almost automatic gesture reminded him of all Kiley had been for him from the start. From before his name started appearing in headlines, before his face became recognizable in airports and restaurants.

Kiley had been patient. Painfully patient at times. She had learned to wait in the background, accept last-minute cancellations, adapt to a life she had never asked for but chose to share with him. She had endured long silences, rushed moves, weeks of absence, all without turning it into an emotional debt.

When Hudson skyrocketed to fame, Kiley hadn’t tried to cling or demand a place she knew the world wouldn’t give her. On the contrary: she stepped back when necessary, protected her privacy when everything around them went public, and sometimes understood—before he did—what this new rhythm would cost them.

That was something Hudson loved about her. Deeply. That way of loving without suffocating. Of being present without noise. Of staying even when disappearing seemed easiest.

So when Kiley spoke of his imminent disappearance, Hudson didn’t hear a complaint. He heard tiredness. And love.

That morning, Hudson wore a cap and sunglasses. Minimal armor. The days in Paris had been calm. Too calm, now that he thought about it. As if the city had granted them a temporary truce.

“Hudson Williams?”

The voice came from behind, shaky, charged with an emotion Hudson knew well. Recognition. Expectation. Nerves.

The effect was immediate. Hudson let go of Kiley’s hand as if it had burned him and turned in his seat. The movement was clumsy, almost abrupt. They had recognized him.

That week, he had enjoyed anonymity more than he admitted. He had laughed with Kiley each time they returned to the Airbnb, checking that no one had pointed or taken new photos. They had planned the trip obsessively: strategic schedules, quieter streets, cafés away from tourist circuits. All to avoid attention, cameras, noise.

Hudson smiled warmly. He had never minded fans approaching. He didn’t see hostility in the gesture, only uncontained affection. Plus, the food hadn’t arrived yet; he wasn’t interrupting anything tangible.

Nothing, except…

Kiley.

Hudson felt her presence behind him like a silent weight. He made an almost physical effort not to turn his head. Kiley hated exposure. She had had enough when her photos were leaked online, arranged as an unauthorized chronological album of her relationship with him. Cruel comments, unnecessary analyses, comparisons. Since then, she had chosen to stay in the background, removing herself from the public eye.

That’s why many people believed Hudson was single.

And in a way, Hudson had let that idea float. Not because he was ashamed of the truth—never—but because he didn’t want to put Kiley at the center of a storm she hadn’t asked for.

He hadn’t even caved when the company subtly suggested reinforcing the narrative that he and Connor were single, letting on-screen chemistry mix with public fantasy.

Connor hadn’t agreed either.

If Hudson thought honestly, from the beginning they had tried to sell his relationship with Connor as more than professional. It wasn’t an explicit decision, nor a direct order, but something built through small choices: carefully edited glances, prolonged silences in interviews, ambiguous headlines that always left a door ajar. The narrative had taken hold on its own, fueled by fandom and conveniently maintained by those who knew that kind of tension sold.

That thought brought him back to the present situation with the company, to that inseparable duo arrangement that seemed to come with fine print. Connor and him as a package. Connor and him as an image. As if they were an indivisible unit, even off set.

Elena had told him to enjoy Paris. Not to jump to catastrophic scenarios. That when he returned, she’d update him on what she had discussed with CAA and what things really looked like. Hudson had clung to that message more than he would admit. Elena’s firm, practical voice had given him borrowed calm, like a hand on his back preventing him from crumbling.

He wanted to believe it had all been something internal at Hermès. A creative decision. A last-minute change. Nothing more. Not a bigger scheme. Not other hands quietly moving pieces, shaping his image, tightening narratives, pushing him somewhere he hadn’t fully chosen.

That’s what he wanted to believe.

Because thinking otherwise meant accepting that external forces were watching him too closely, ready to use anything—even his closest relationships—as material.

And Hudson wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

Now, standing by a table at HolyBelly, a fan waiting for a reply and Kiley seated behind him, Hudson felt that carefully constructed calm crack just a little.

“Can we take a photo with you?” asked a woman accompanied by four friends, stepping forward slightly, phone already in hand. “Please?”

Hudson opened his mouth automatically to say he was about to eat, maybe later, but stopped halfway. A photo wouldn’t really hurt anyone. He smiled and nodded.

That was the mistake.

As soon as he agreed, the faces around him turned almost in unison, as if someone had spoken a keyword. Murmurs. Phones raised. People who didn’t know exactly who he was, but recognized the universal gesture of detected celebrity. Some approached just by inertia, by the promise of something worth recording.

Kiley was buried in the crowd alarmingly fast. Hudson tried to locate her among heads and outstretched arms, but he couldn’t see her anymore. His cap and sunglasses were useless against collective curiosity.

“I have to go,” he said, raising his voice slightly without losing his smile. “Thanks, guys.”

Questions started firing off, unordered and unfiltered. About season two. About filming dates. About where Connor was. About whether they were staying together. Every name, every assumption, made his shoulders tense more.

Hudson pushed through as best he could and left the restaurant without looking back. He didn’t want Kiley dragged into it. Didn’t want anyone photographing her, asking who she was, turning her into a topic of conversation. He was almost guilty to see that apparently, no one had noticed her.

Once outside, he sent her a message with his location. Kiley caught up a few minutes later, walking fast, brow furrowed, lips in an adorable, frustrated pout.

“I’m so sorry, babe,” Hudson said immediately, and he meant it.

Kiley sighed, but her expression softened immediately. She understood. Always did. She knew it wasn’t her fault.

“We celebrated too soon, damn it,” she said, crossing her arms. “I was dying to try those homemade gnocchi and sesame-cardamom cookies.”

Hudson drew her close without thinking, wrapping both arms around her. They stayed like that under a large tree that offered shade and the illusion of privacy, protected by leafy branches falling to the sides like a natural curtain.

“How about we order HolyBelly for delivery?” he suggested.

“To the plaza?” Kiley’s eyes lit up instantly.

Hudson smiled.

“Let’s pick a less obvious spot today,” he said, pressing his forehead against hers. “I want us to be able to eat.”

Kiley nodded without hesitation.

And for a moment, at least that suspended instant under the tree, the world seemed to lower its volume. The city’s murmur softened by leaves, sunlight filtering through branches casting irregular shadows on the ground, Hudson allowed his breath to match Kiley’s. A pause. A brief respite.

He didn’t know that at that very moment, his phone vibrated in the back pocket of his pants.

A message from Elena:

“Have you talked to Connor yet? Does he know anything? Call me when you can.”

Chapter End Notes

Alright, this is my first time writing explicit scenes. I’m not sure I did it well, especially since English isn’t my first language. So I apologize if it was a mess to read hahaha

Chapter 5: Threshold

Chapter Notes

CHAPTER V

Hudson called Elena early in the morning but there was no answer. He was sitting in one of the chairs in the airport waiting area, with his suitcase at his side and his phone in hand. The constant murmur of announcements, the coming and going of passengers, and the sound of luggage carts felt strangely irritating.

He hadn’t read Elena’s message until late the previous night, so he hadn’t called or texted her sooner. Even so, the uncertainty knotted his stomach constantly. Elena had good communication with Brad and Nick, but she was also very close to Larissa, Connor’s publicist, which gave her first-hand access to information. Thinking about that had kept him awake all night, tossing and turning in bed more than he could count, replaying Elena’s message in his mind and imagining the worst-case scenario of what could have happened.

Hudson hadn’t messaged Connor to find out what was going on. He didn’t want to bother him with unnecessary questions or become the bearer of bad news that might not even be important. He also didn’t want to drag him into his own anxiety, as if Hudson himself were just another weight in an already difficult moment. Yet, every time his gaze fell on the phone, the urge to call him and ask if he was okay grew stronger, a tingling urgency tightening in his chest.

Kiley, for her part, seemed to sense his tension; she had felt it since the night before. She had asked several times, worried because Hudson seemed more restless than usual, and he had responded evasively, not wanting to worry her more than necessary. Although he appreciated her attention, Hudson felt torn: he didn’t want anyone to get too involved, but at the same time, he was grateful for the reminder that he wasn’t alone in his anxiety.

Thinking of Connor, he allowed himself a small sense of relief: maybe he wasn’t alone anymore. François was probably there, supporting him if needed. Still, Hudson couldn’t shake the doubt. Damn, he didn’t even know if Elena’s message actually meant something bad. With everything that had happened recently with Hermès and what he believed had to do with CAA, any news like that immediately alarmed him. He silently scolded Elena for not giving him more details, as if the message had been a sort of bomb dropped without caring about the consequences for him.

He ran a hand over his neck, trying to clear the sense of urgency clouding his mind. He took a deep breath, trying to convince himself he should wait to talk to Elena, that perhaps she was the only one who could give him the clarity he needed. But still, he couldn’t get the image of Connor out of his head—probably dealing with something Hudson couldn’t even imagine, even with François there to support him.

Hudson believed, in some way, due to his ego, that he could handle almost anything. But Connor was different. More sensitive, more prone to be swept away by any unexpected blow, by any decision that left him out of control. That made him feel… powerless. As if there was something he couldn’t protect, something slipping away from him.

—Honey… —Kiley began, her voice soft as she placed a hand on Hudson’s shoulder to help him relax, to get him to talk to her and let some of the anxiety dissipate.

But her hand fell weakly when Hudson abruptly stood up, shoulders tense, and answered the phone. It was Elena calling.

—Hey… —Hudson said, his urgency contained, leaning on one hip while his other foot tapped the floor in an attempt to calm the anxiety clouding his mind—. What happened? What were you talking about?

—I’m sorry, Hud —Elena said on the other end—. I couldn’t answer earlier.

—What happened? —Hudson replied, ignoring the apology. He couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to know everything was okay before boarding a plane that would take him more than ten hours away from any news, any control over the situation.

—Wasn’t Connor supposed to be cast for the Calvin Klein underwear campaign? —Elena asked and Hudson felt bile rise in his throat.

Oh no. No, no, no. His heart sank. He hoped, almost praying, that what came next wouldn’t be like the Hermès situation. They had taken that campaign from him, and honestly, he didn’t care. He could handle it, accept it, even take the blow without dramatizing it too much. But Calvin Klein was different. That was Connor’s dream, something he had wanted for years, and Hudson knew losing it would be a blow Connor couldn’t handle the way he had with Hermès. They couldn’t take it from him. Simply couldn’t.

—Uhm —Hudson responded, his voice heavy with fear, dreading the worst.

—They gave the campaign to Robbie G.K. —Elena said cautiously, as if saying it softly could soften the blow.

Hudson felt a tug in his chest, as if someone had grabbed him from the inside and squeezed. His breathing became rapid, almost choked, and he had to lean more heavily on his hip, as if that gesture alone could support the weight of the world.

—Why? —his voice barely a whisper, hoarse from the mix of anger, helplessness, and fear. He felt awful. Every fiber of his being wanted to do something, anything, to give that dream back to Connor. But there he was, standing in the middle of the airport, phone in hand, with the certainty that this time, all he could do was wait.

Kiley watched him, frowning, understanding the storm raging inside him. She stepped closer and placed her hand on Hudson’s, trying to convey calm, trying to let him know he wasn’t alone, even though nothing could change what he had just heard.

Once on the plane, Hudson sent a message to Connor. He hesitated before doing it, the phone suspended in his hands for a few seconds, feeling stupid, because it wasn’t like texting would change anything. He didn’t know if Brad or Nick had already talked to him about what happened. So far, Connor hadn’t said anything. They were probably in a meeting over Google Meet or FaceTime, considering that Connor’s agents had traveled to Canada a day before his trip to Paris. Hudson hoped they would find a way to comfort him the same way Elena had comforted him.

Then Hudson realized he hadn’t told Connor about Hermès either. Not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t want to burden Connor with another worry. He didn’t want to seed anxiety or see him get upset over something Hudson felt he could handle alone. Connor was probably doing the same thing now… maybe. Keeping the blow to himself, pretending it wasn’t that serious.

He wrote the message carefully, choosing something neutral, something that didn’t demand an immediate explanation:
I’ll be offline for more than 10 hours. I’m on a flight back to Vancouver.

He sent the message and stared at the screen, the phone still in his hand. He waited for a vibration, a quick reply, anything that would confirm Connor was okay, that he wasn’t alone, that someone was holding him up in that moment.

But the reply didn’t come before the plane started moving. Hudson activated airplane mode and locked the screen just as the takeoff pressed him against the seat, an uncomfortable weight on his chest that had nothing to do with altitude.

For a second—just a second—Hudson wondered if maybe the best thing would be to give in to what CAA wanted. If accepting their terms, lowering his head, and letting things run their course could prevent more blows like that.

Then he thought maybe it wasn’t that serious. Maybe they were just going through a streak of bad luck, one of those phases where, for some reason, both of them started missing out on campaigns that seemed secure.

***

Connor was sprawled on the sofa, his gaze lost in the view through the window. He wasn’t really looking at anything; his eyes were just there, fixed, while his mind circled around itself. A little while earlier, he had had a FaceTime call with his agent, Nick, who had been straightforward in telling him that the Calvin Klein campaign had been canceled.

Nick explained that they would need to meet as soon as Connor returned to Canada. He, along with Brad and Elena, were trying to move some things, and there would be a meeting with the CAA management. They didn’t give him many details—just enough to make it clear that something was going on.

Connor didn’t know exactly what it was about, but he appreciated that his team was trying to do something, even though a part of him doubted they could really change the situation. How much could really be done, after all? He tried to convince himself it had just been bad luck, an unpleasant coincidence, nothing more.

For a moment, it crossed his mind that maybe all of this had something to do with the warnings Natalie and Steven had given them that day during the meeting. The thought settled in his chest, uncomfortable, heavy. But Connor forced himself to push it away before it could take root. Thinking about it wouldn’t help now.

He sighed, sinking a little deeper into the sofa, as if fatigue had suddenly hit his whole body. All he wanted in that moment was for the noise in his head to calm down… even if just for a little while.

His phone vibrated, and Connor lifted it almost out of habit. Hudson’s name lit up the screen.

I’ll be offline for more than 10 hours. I’m on the flight back to Vancouver.

The message was enough to pull him—without warning—into a conversation he had had days earlier with François. That offhand comment, that uncomfortable suspicion: that a campaign that had seemed destined for Hudson had ended up with François. At the time, Connor had decided not to think much about it, but now the idea kept resurfacing, insistent.

He didn’t reply.

He didn’t want Hudson to worry, to spend more than ten hours on a plane imagining the worst or feeling disappointed. Connor closed his eyes for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts. He didn’t want to feel so destroyed by this. He was disappointed, yes, deeply, but he also tried to convince himself that better things would come. They always did… right?

Modeling for Calvin Klein had been a dream for years. Something he had imagined too many times to pretend it didn’t matter. Having it snatched away like that, all at once, made him feel like crap. And the worst part was that silent resentment he couldn’t shake, directed at Robbie, even though he knew perfectly well Robbie wasn’t at fault.

“Connie”—François’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

He handed him a cup of tea and a ginger cookie, looking at him with that mix of patience and tenderness Connor knew so well.

“Eat this.”

“I don’t want to,” Connor murmured. His voice was soft, childlike, like a spoiled complaint. François smiled.

“Screw Calvin Klein,” he said, sitting beside him. “They’re the ones losing this man.”

He leaned in to kiss Connor’s bare chest, a simple gesture, but loaded with intent. Connor barely smiled. He ran a hand through his boyfriend’s hair and then down to his face, forcing him to look at him.

“Have you talked to Robbie?” he asked.

“Why?” François pulled back slightly, frowning.

Connor shrugged, as if it didn’t matter.

“Right… why would you?” he sighed. “I thought maybe he could’ve noticed the same thing you did with Hermès.”

François settled more comfortably on the sofa and pulled Connor into a firm embrace.

“What you have now are offers,” he said calmly. “You’ve been reading script after script. You have projects lined up alongside the second season of the show. You have work—lots of work, my love. I know this was something you wanted with all your heart, but I promise better things will come for you.”

Connor let himself be held. He wrapped an arm around François’s waist and rested his head on his shoulder, feeling the tension in his chest loosen a little.

“Thank you,” he murmured before kissing his cheek.

“Don’t say it,” François whispered. “I’m not telling you this to make you feel better. It’s the truth.”

Connor smiled, small, tired, but sincere.

He thought about how necessary this moment was. Being like this. Alone. Together. Holding each other. Maybe, if he were in Canada, he would have sought Hudson to vent. The image of Hudson flying without knowing what was happening made his chest tighten for a second. But he also realized something: it was okay to turn to François now. And he knew it—because he felt it—François was happy to be the one holding him in that moment.

***

Connor and François traveled back to Canada together. The passage through Los Angeles airport was surprisingly calm; they had chosen a low-traffic time, taking care with every detail to make sure no one followed them. For a while, Connor almost managed to relax.

Vancouver, however, was another story.

Even before leaving the restricted area, Connor could see the chaos waiting for them on the other side: flashes, screams, phones raised, people packed against the barriers. Fans and paparazzi mixed into a single mess. Great, he thought, a bitter grimace forming. He still wasn’t ready to face that.

“This is going to be… fun,” he muttered, without a hint of humor.

It wasn’t the photos or fan requests that bothered him; he was used to that. What unsettled him was what would come afterward. The headlines, the comments, the speculation. He knew—he anticipated—that seeing him with François would turn the conversation back to them.

He sighed and leaned against the wall, hands sunk into the pockets of his jacket, trying to keep his anxiety at bay. His gaze fell on François, who still hadn’t returned with the luggage, and he couldn’t help but wonder how all this noise would affect him.

When François finally appeared, pushing the luggage cart, Connor nodded toward the windows facing outside. The crowd was impossible to ignore. Connor pressed his lips together, forming a small pout.

“News travels fast,” François remarked. “Literally.”

Connor knew immediately that someone in L.A. had leaked the flight. The thought made a stab of irritation twist in his stomach.

“We can stay here until they get bored,” he said, shrugging with a mockery that didn’t feel real.

François smiled, tilting his head.

“You know we’ll give up before they do.”

Connor let out a brief nasal laugh, tired, almost resigned. His hands stayed in the jean jacket pockets, fingers cold, shoulders tense as if bracing for impact.

“I know.”

The silence that followed was short but heavy. The distant noise of flashes, muffled by the glass, seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Connor adjusted his cap unconsciously, lowering the visor a little more, then pushed his sunglasses against the bridge of his nose, as if to make sure they were still doing their job.

François watched him carefully. He saw the rigidity in his posture, the way he was breathing more shallowly than usual. Then he arched an eyebrow, theatrically.

“What if we act like complete assholes?” he joked. “Or would that be too much?”

Connor looked up. For a moment, his anxiety was displaced by something different: curiosity, even a touch of excitement.

“I’m listening,” he said, and his voice no longer sounded so muted.

François took a small step toward him, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.

“We can take away the pleasure of having our faces in their photos,” he explained. “The body? Let them have it. The face? Screw them.”

Connor let out a more genuine laugh, brief but real. He imagined the frustrated faces, the expensive lenses pointed at nothing useful. It wasn’t against the fans—never would be—but that voracious machinery… that deserved to be left wanting.

“How?” he asked, though he was starting to guess.

François went first. Without a word, he grabbed the thick navy jacket he was wearing and, in a nearly theatrical gesture, pulled it over his shoulders and then back on in an unconventional way, lifting it to cover his head and part of his face. The padded fabric fell heavily, deforming his silhouette and completely hiding his features. Only one hand remained holding the jacket at the neck, making sure it didn’t slip.

“Like this,” he said, his voice muffled by the fabric.

Connor stared at him for a long second. The scene was absurd… and precisely for that reason, perfect. He shook his head, smiling.

“You’re an idiot.”

“A very creative one,” François replied.

Connor looked at him for barely a second, incredulous… and then mimicked him. He took off his jean jacket and lifted it over his head, placing it in a similar way, covering his face with the stiff fabric. The cap and sunglasses remained partially visible under the makeshift shadow, a clumsy but effective attempt at anonymity. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t discreet. But it worked.

“I guess this is as close as we’ll get to going unnoticed,” he muttered.

“Five glorious minutes,” François replied.

From the outside, they looked like two absurd, almost cartoonish figures, moving forward with steady but measured steps, as if this ridiculous gesture really worked as an improvised armor. There was no contact between them, no obvious glances or gestures betraying anything more. Just silent synchronicity: the same cadence in their steps, the same calculation in every movement, the shared decision to offer nothing that wasn’t strictly necessary.

Under the fabric covering their faces, both of them were dying of laughter. They knew it. They felt it. It was a private joke in the middle of the chaos, a moment stolen from someone else’s control. A minimal, almost childish act of rebellion. And at the same time, a clumsy but effective way to protect themselves.

The automatic door opened in front of them with a soft hiss, almost unreal.

Beyond it awaited the explosion: noise, flashes, cameras, opinions they had never asked for or needed.

Connor was the first to step forward.

And together, they walked out.

***

Hudson arrived at Elena’s office early in the morning. The building was still half asleep, with lights gradually turning on and a silence that contrasted with the whirlwind of doubts he carried inside. Elena had summoned him with a brief message, almost too professional for someone who knew him well: Brad and Nick would also be there. Connor, included.

That last detail was enough to make his stomach tighten.

The memory of his return to Vancouver was still fresh. More than ten hours of flight suspended in unbearable uncertainty, with no clear news, able to do nothing but imagine increasingly worse scenarios. When the plane landed and he switched off airplane mode, Connor’s message was waiting.

“I wish I could tell you I’m okay, but I can’t lie.
See you at Elena’s office on Thursday.
I miss you.”

Damn… he missed him too. Much more than he had wanted to admit.

It had been a month without really sharing anything. Short messages, measured conversations, silences that stretched longer than they should have. In theory, it was the healthiest thing for both of them. Space. Distance. Time to sort through things that had been piling up for too long. But in practice, Hudson couldn’t keep stretching that rope without feeling something break in his chest.

While waiting for the elevator, he thought of Connor over and over. How was he now? Did that time alone with François help him reaffirm whatever it was they needed to reaffirm between them? Hudson wanted to believe so. Not out of resignation, but because he genuinely wanted Connor to feel better, safer, calmer.

Still, he couldn’t deny the obvious: he missed him. He missed his easy laughter, conversations that ran longer than intended, those endless walks with a coffee in hand where they could talk for hours without stopping, as if time didn’t exist. He missed that silent complicity that had always been his point of balance. And he hoped—almost desperately—that, after all, the time he got to spend with Connor again could be as good as it had always been between them.

He arrived at Elena’s office and found he was the first to arrive. The place was calm, interrupted only by the quick, constant sound of keyboards. Elena was behind her desk, focused on her laptop screen, eyebrows slightly furrowed, with a steaming cup of coffee beside her.

“Good morning,” Hudson greeted.

Elena looked up and gave him a brief smile before typing a final line.

“You’re punctual,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Suspiciously so, since you didn’t arrive ten minutes earlier.”

Hudson sat across from her desk and let out a long sigh, as if only now his body allowed itself to slow down. When Elena stood to pour him coffee and offered it, he shook his head immediately.

“I’ll pass,” he replied. “I love coffee, but if I have one this early, there’s no stopping me afterward.”

Elena chuckled softly.

“Coward.”

“Responsible,” he corrected. “Or at least I try.”

She sat back down, resting her forearms on the desk, watching him over the laptop screen.

“Connor’s on his way,” she announced.

Hudson nodded, trying to make the gesture look natural. Still, he felt something jump in his chest—a mix of nerves and relief knowing he would see him in just a few minutes after so long.

“Can you give me a hint…?” he asked. “Or should I prepare myself emotionally for the worst?”

Elena raised an eyebrow, tilting her head with mock consideration.

“Look, for someone as desperate as you, I should charge you for spoilers.”

Hudson exhaled, leaning back in his chair.

“Great. Always a good sign.”

“Relax,” she added, with a crooked smile. “If it were the apocalypse, I would’ve made you sign three contracts and given you coffee by force.”

Hudson let out a short laugh, but his fingers intertwined in his lap, betraying that he was far from calm. He glanced at the door out of the corner of his eye, almost unconsciously.

“Sure…” he murmured. “What could go wrong?”

Elena observed him for a moment longer, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, but decided to say nothing. At least not yet.

Hudson and Elena chatted briefly about his short Paris vacation. During the conversation, Hudson pulled a black beret from his bag and handed it to her. Elena’s eyes widened in surprise, and then she smiled, taking the item gently as if it were fragile. She had spent days talking about how much she wanted one, almost like a passing obsession.

“This is from Kiley and me,” Hudson clarified. “So you don’t forget about us.”

“As if I could,” Elena replied, amused, trying on the beret in the reflection of the glass.

The conversation continued a few more minutes, light, almost normal, until the elevator beeped through the office like a gunshot. Hudson felt his heart stop for a moment.

And then he heard it.

Connor’s laugh.

It was almost reflexive. That sound—clear, familiar, unmistakable—immediately loosened his chest. Connor was laughing. That had to mean something good. At least, he wasn’t completely devastated over the campaign. Hudson allowed himself that small relief, brief but necessary.

He didn’t move from his seat.

He made a real effort to stay put, not to turn, not to search for him with his eyes prematurely. He forced himself to keep his gaze forward, hands still on his lap, as if any gesture could give too much away.

When the office door opened, Hudson turned almost instinctively. A moment later, he realized: Connor’s eyes had been fixed on his back the whole time. The eye contact was immediate, electric, as if all the office noise had disappeared in an instant. Hudson could swear they both had the same expression: a wide smile that hurt their cheeks, a strange sparkle in their eyes mixing joy and something neither dared to name.

“Huddy.”

Connor’s voice came almost as a squeal, filled with contained emotion. Hudson stood, walking toward him with steps that seemed lighter than usual, as if the air itself guided them. Connor opened his arms without thinking, pulling him into a warm hug that erased everything else. The space seemed to shrink until it became a place just for the two of them.

Connor smelled incredible: a citrusy mix, fresh like freshly peeled tangerines, with an exotic, almost spicy hint Hudson vaguely recognized as cardamom. He buried his nose in his friend’s neck, taking a deep breath, letting that scent anchor him to the moment. Connor, in turn, hugged his shoulders tightly and pressed his forehead into the hollow between his neck and shoulder, as if needing to remember the texture of Hudson against him.

“My baby,” Hudson whispered, voice barely audible, loaded with affection and a tremor of emotion he couldn’t control.

“I missed you,” Connor murmured, his breath brushing Hudson’s skin, so close to his ear it felt like a secret whispered to the universe.

“I really missed you,” Hudson whispered back, though he wasn’t sure he said it aloud. The words seemed to get stuck in his throat, as if each one had to fight through a knot of emotion to come out. His chest raced, and a surprising warmth rose up his neck.

Elena cleared her throat softly, interrupting that tiny world around them. Hudson and Connor reluctantly broke the hug, not noticing how long they had been silent, wrapped only in each other’s presence.

“We have a meeting here, right?” Elena said, breaking the bubble of their intimacy.

Hudson felt his cheeks heat up, and yet couldn’t help but smile broadly. He looked at Connor, who returned the smile, bright, warm, like a small sun illuminating everything around him. Hudson also noticed his flushed cheeks, the slightly tanned tone of his skin, and how the scant sunlight coming through the window made his hair almost unrealistically shiny. God, Hudson thought, his friend was really beautiful.

Connor looked at him with that familiar spark in his eyes before taking a seat. He winked and gently pulled the chair next to him, silently asking Hudson to sit beside him. Hudson didn’t hesitate.

As soon as he settled, Connor took his hand in his own and began to play with his fingers with subtle, barely perceptible movements, while keeping his eyes on Elena, ready for the conversation ahead. Hudson let the warmth of Connor’s hand soothe him, enjoying the silent closeness.

He quickly apologized to Brad and Nick for not greeting them earlier. Both laughed, already accustomed to the fact that when Hudson and Connor were together, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of them, and everything else faded into the background.

Elena wasted no time. With a firm voice, she got straight to the point: Hudson had been removed from the Hermès campaign, and Connor from the Calvin Klein one.

Hudson and Connor exchanged a quick look, loaded with silent understanding. It was a “you didn’t tell me,” but also a mutual acknowledgment: neither felt they needed to explain. There were no reproaches, just complicity. It was strange how, even in complicated moments, their silences made sense.

Elena went on, with the firmness of someone trying to organize chaos: she had been at CAA the day after Hudson’s campaign cancellation, moving between offices and hallways, trying to find something without raising suspicion. But the truth was elusive. There were no emails, notes, or concrete evidence that could prove someone had manipulated the situation. Everything was intuition, suspicion, scattered pieces of a puzzle no one seemed willing to complete.

“I met with Nick and Brad earlier,” Elena said, her voice clear and firm, with a hint of urgency that seemed to touch the office walls. This didn’t surprise Connor or Hudson; paradoxically, even though they insisted on not being seen as a “unit” and had different agents, their creative teams seemed to connect almost telepathically. They always knew when something could affect the other. Hudson and Connor admired that ease, that synchronicity that seemed almost instinctive.

“Nick noticed something I didn’t,” Elena continued, leaning slightly toward the table, as if that simple gesture concentrated all the importance of what she was about to say.

All eyes turned to Nick. He raised an eyebrow, as if what he was about to say were obvious.

“It can’t be a coincidence that both of you had such important campaigns taken away,” Nick said, voice low but firm. “Coincidentally, those campaigns went to François and Robbie G.K.”

Hudson frowned, his expression reflecting confusion and bewilderment. He thought he understood something, but in truth, he didn’t; his face betrayed him, and Connor immediately noticed. Under the table, he gently squeezed Hudson’s hand, an almost imperceptible gesture, but loaded with silent support.

“François and Robbie will be the protagonists of the series set in the same universe as Heated Rivalry,” Nick continued, eyes searching to make sure everyone was following. “There are many fans waiting for Scott and Kip’s story to unfold as well as Shane and Ilya’s. For Crave, it’s motivating to think the universe will keep growing; they’ll bet on anything that guarantees it. As for CAA, what matters to them is having allies who make that possible.”

Connor frowned, confusion and tension mixing in his gaze. “I…” he murmured, voice trembling. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“CAA and Crave must have allied to ensure François and Robbie’s popularity rises before the series launch,” Elena said, her tone firm but laced with concern. “They’ll give them strategic jobs to keep them in the public eye.”

“But they aren’t with CAA,” Hudson said, incredulity striking his face like lightning.

“That’s the point,” Brad intervened, with a seriousness that silenced the room. “Nick believes CAA is trying to do with François and Robbie what they couldn’t do with you two.”

“That makes no sense,” Connor replied, disbelief mixed with frustration. “They can’t benefit if they’re not even in the company.”

“That’s the other point,” Elena said, biting her lower lip slightly, a gesture revealing the tension of exposing something she couldn’t fully confirm. “I couldn’t verify that CAA directly interfered with the campaigns, but I did discover they are in the process of recruiting both François and Robbie as new talents.”

“What?” Connor and Hudson exclaimed in unison, the synchronicity of their voices highlighting shared incredulity.

“We believe they are trying to create a whole narrative around them,” Brad said, shrugging. “But we also think CAA is trying to send a message to you two.”

Hudson brought his fingers to his forehead, tension concentrating in every line. He felt a knot of anger and anxiety that refused to go away. He breathed deeply, trying to maintain composure while his mind raced.

“Maybe it’s a way of saying you’re replaceable. No one is indispensable,” Nick said, with a calculated coldness that made Hudson’s skin prickle.

“This may or may not work,” Elena added, crossing her hands on the table. “They could lose everything or gain everything… and meanwhile, you two are caught in the middle.”

“But—” Brad interrupted, his voice grave, “our suspicion is that what CAA will do next is manipulate the narrative. They want you to feel reduced to nothing when they take everything away, and that way they’ll force you to give in to what they want.”

“That way, they’d gain both you and the package, and those two at the same time,” Nick added, leaning his hands on the table as if to emphasize the gravity of the situation.

Hudson leaned back, letting out a frustrated sigh. Anger and helplessness churned in his stomach.

“I feel like throwing up,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “This is bullshit.”

“Is there any way to leave CAA and find an agency that has our back in the middle of all this?” Connor asked, lowering his voice, almost as if he feared the universe might hear and mock them.

“We’ve been looking into it,” Brad said, his expression somber. “Doesn’t look good.”

Hudson closed his eyes for a second, trying to calm the mix of fear, anger, and frustration burning in his chest. Then he opened his eyes and shouted, almost in a fierce whisper:

“Fuck them!”

He then turned his gaze toward Connor. And there it was: the same mixture of surprise, disbelief, and tension reflected in his eyes. It was like looking in a mirror, but a mirror that also showed shared worry and fear.

“Has he said anything to you?” Hudson murmured, his voice low, almost afraid of breaking the delicate thread of the conversation. Connor understood immediately that he meant François. He shook his head, words seeming trapped in his throat, held back by a mix of fear and astonishment.

“Maybe he doesn’t know yet,” Elena intervened, with a calming gesture, as if trying to bring a little light into the shadow of uncertainty floating in the air. “Guys,” she added, catching their attention and forcing them to look at her directly, “I understand how you feel right now, but we want to clarify that what you’re hearing… these are assumptions we’ve come to after long discussions. Nothing is certain.”

Hudson stared at her, forehead furrowed, a thread of frustration and determination tensing his jaw.

“Fuck that,” he said finally, voice firm, with a hint of defiance. “You know it’s really like that.”

Elena said nothing. She only tilted her head slightly, aware that Hudson’s intuition had hit closer to the truth than even they wanted to admit.

“François said he sensed that the Hermès campaign was meant for Hudson,” Connor let slip, the sentence hanging in the air like a small, silent explosion.

Hudson’s head turned so fast it almost hurt his neck. His eyes widened, surprise and disbelief mixing with a sudden warmth in his chest.

“He told you?” he asked, voice barely a thread of incredulity.

Connor nodded. His lips stayed closed, and his expression showed an attempt to process the information without letting emotions betray him.

“But he said he didn’t know why, he just sensed it,” Connor continued, his tone soft, trying to bring order to the tangle of emotions floating in the room.

“Well, he saw us go there and then heard me say we had to leave—maybe he just connected the dots,” Elena suggested, attempting to rationalize it, though her voice carried a hint of doubt she couldn’t hide.

Hudson looked at Connor again. And in that look was a silent question, so intense it felt almost tangible: Do you believe him? Connor’s expression was complicated, a whirlwind of emotions, and he finally averted his gaze, unable to answer immediately.

“What do we do now?” Hudson asked, letting out a heavy sigh that seemed to drag all his exhaustion with it. His body ached, but what truly drained him was the sense of helplessness, of watching someone else move the pieces of their professional lives as if they were tokens on a board.

Elena leaned back slightly, resting her elbows on the table, her gaze serious and calculating.

“Let’s break it down,” she said calmly, though firmly. “First, short-term solutions. We need to make sure you are protected while this is being resolved. The most immediate step is reviewing your current contracts: exclusivity clauses, cancellation clauses, guaranteed compensation. If any campaign was withdrawn without just cause, we can issue a formal letter of demand or complaint. This isn’t just to pressure them, but to create a legal record that any action against you could be considered bad faith or breach of contract.”

Nick spoke up, eyebrows slightly furrowed, organizing his thoughts before continuing.

“In the medium term, it’s worth considering active search for external legal representation specialized in intellectual property, advertising, and talent management. We need to ensure that if CAA or any other agency tries to manipulate narratives or contracts, they have to go through a lawyer who can take preventive measures—like cease-and-desist notices or even injunctions to protect your image and opportunities.”

Brad leaned forward, intensity reflecting the seriousness of the matter.

“And in the long term, we have to think about your independent career strategy. That means creating a plan to reduce dependence on any agency or studio that could manipulate you. Includes: developing direct relationships with brands and production companies, carefully negotiating joint representation contracts, and considering options for self-production or strategic collaborations where you retain creative and contractual control.”

Hudson frowned, his hand partially covering his face.

“That… sounds good, but I feel so trapped. Like everything we’ve done could be erased in a moment.”

Connor gently squeezed his hand, providing an anchor of calm amid the whirlwind.

Elena took a deep breath, anticipating the anxiety ahead.

“We’re not going to let that happen. No one can force you to accept conditions that diminish you. But we must act strategically: any misstep could give CAA a legal pretext to justify their actions. That’s why the keyword is: documentation and evidence. Every contact, every email, any sign of manipulation must be recorded. Even internal meeting notes can be useful if it comes to a legal point.”

Nick added, firm, almost instructive:

“Also, we need to assess a communication plan. Not just legal, but public: how you present yourselves to media, social networks, and fans without showing vulnerability, but making it clear that your work and image aren’t manipulable. This creates a psychological and strategic barrier against any attempt by CAA or Crave to play with the narrative.”

Hudson sighed again, letting the words sink in, feeling a little lighter, though not completely relieved.

“So… immediate protection, medium-term strategy with lawyers, and a long-term plan to avoid depending on them,” he summarized.

“Exactly,” Brad said, nodding. “We can’t change what they did, but we can control how we respond and prevent them from manipulating us again.”

Connor let out a long, tired exhale, letting the frustration seep into his voice. He pulled his hand away from Hudson’s.

“With the second season recordings starting soon and contracts already signed…” he paused, fists clenched on the table, “…we won’t have time to do all of that. Not even a minimal margin to move without being eaten alive.”

Hudson looked at him, immediately understanding: they were trapped between contractual obligations and potential agency manipulation. His heart raced, a knot of anxiety in his throat.

Elena leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze fixed on them.

“We get it,” she said firmly. “That’s why you won’t have to do it alone.”

Nick nodded, grave but determined.

“We commit to working together on this. Every step, every letter, every contract review will be coordinated. While you record, we handle legal and strategic protection.”

Brad placed his hand on the table, reinforcing the point.

“We can’t stop production, but we can make sure that every action the agencies take is documented and properly confronted. You won’t be alone in this.”

Connor exhaled, a bit calmer, letting some tension slip away. Hudson squeezed his hand, a silent gesture of mutual support.

“Alright,” Connor said, firmer this time. “So, while we act on screen, you handle the moves behind it.”

Elena smiled faintly, that mix of professionalism and warmth that made them trust her.

“Exactly. We’re a team, and we’ll keep you covered.”

Hudson nodded, feeling that for the first time since this chaos began, there was a clear line of defense. Though the road would be exhausting, they weren’t facing this alone.

***

They had driven back to Hudson’s apartment, planning to catch up and relax a little. But the recent meeting with their agents had left them both on edge, their moods tangled in a mix of frustration and tension that neither seemed willing—or able—to shake off. During the ride, silence dominated; words were few, because each was trapped in their own thoughts, anticipating what was coming in their careers and unable to shake the unease pressing against their chests.

The important thing was that they had each other. At least they wouldn’t have to face this alone. Even though their agents were working together, their real support was here, between them, quiet but steady. It was a delicate moment, marked by that familiar anxiety that comes with unexpected news, that constant sense of alertness that makes every minute feel heavier than the last, as if even the air around them had grown thick.

Every second of the ride seemed to stretch, heavy and dense, as if time itself were nervous. And in the middle of it all, the only certainty was each other’s company—a small refuge against the chaos looming just ahead.

“Are you going to ask him directly?” Hudson dropped his shoes by the door, as if releasing the physical weight would lighten the one he carried in his head. His gaze was fixed on Connor, but there was an accusatory edge to his tone that even he seemed unable to control.

Connor slowly removed his jacket, deliberate movements. He placed it on the coat rack and entered the apartment. Kiley wasn’t home.

“Yes,” he answered, hesitating for a second, “I mean… I know he doesn’t know, he would’ve told me.”

Hudson raised an eyebrow, incredulous.

“He tells you everything?” His tone sounded almost reproachful.

Connor pursed his lips slightly, realizing too late that he was on the defensive.

“I suppose,” he said, crossing his arms stiffly. “I mean… don’t you trust everything Kiley tells you?”

“What does that have to do with it?” Hudson laughed, but it sounded forced, with a bitter edge that betrayed his nervousness. “It’s different.”

“She’s your girlfriend,” Connor said, pointing out the obvious with a half-smile.

“And?” Hudson raised both eyebrows, clearly puzzled, as if he didn’t get the point Connor was trying to make.

“François is my boyfriend,” Connor shrugged slightly, reiterating what for him was obvious. “Why would it be different?”

Connor sat on the sofa, choosing one that separated him from Hudson. He deliberately avoided the other sofa, the same one where last time they had that strange moment neither seemed willing to recall.

“I’m talking professionally,” Hudson said casually, as if he didn’t care, though a hint of irony betrayed him. “Maybe François is waiting until everything’s decided to tell you…”—he raised his hands in an exaggeratedly cheerful gesture, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—“like a surprise. Yay.”

Connor watched him in silence, forehead slightly furrowed, noting the irony and barely contained disdain in Hudson’s expression.

“No, he’s not like that,” he said firmly. “If there’s anything that could affect me in any way, he wouldn’t do it.”

“All right,” Hudson said finally, conceding, though the tension still hung in the air.

Connor took a deeper breath, letting the warm apartment air fill his lungs.

“You know him,” he said softly, as a silent reminder. “You know how he is.”

Hudson laughed softly, a nostalgic sound that barely brushed his lips before disappearing like smoke in the afternoon light streaming through the window.

“Oh, no,” Hudson laughed again, still recalling the chaos of their last encounter at Hermès. “I don’t think I really know him."

“You´re friends too,” Connor murmured, letting the phrase hang for a few seconds, heavy, with subtext that needed no explanation.

Hudson shrugged in contained resignation and walked to the fridge. He grabbed two sugar-free drinks and handed one to Connor, who noticed the cold of the bottle against his hand as he opened it.

“You guys stocked up, huh?” Connor said with a light smile, trying to break the stiffness. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes seeking Hudson’s. “Am I missing something?”

Hudson took a sip, watching Connor play with the cap between his fingers. Connor’s gaze was direct, inquisitive, but not reproachful: he just wanted to understand. Hudson breathed deeply, letting the tension dissolve a little, aware there were things he needed to say.

“Did he tell you we ran into each other that day at Hermès?” Hudson spoke, back firm against the sofa across from Connor. His leg was crossed, making his voice sound calm but sharp.

Connor barely nodded, eyes fixed on the carpet before him.

“Did he tell you… what happened?” Hudson’s question cut the air like a knife.

Connor made a strange gesture with his head, twisting his mouth in a clear “no.”

“He just said he saw you,” he said quietly, almost under his breath. “We’d just reconciled… I didn’t want to talk about you then”

Hudson swallowed. A sharp ache in his chest lingered. He sipped his drink, letting the liquid barely calm the tension. He stayed watching him, measuring the distance between them. The room seemed to shrink around that silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pausing, letting the words fall like stones. “I think I crossed a line that day… I said things I shouldn’t have.”

Connor barely lifted his head. Their eyes met for an instant, and the silent clash of gazes burned their skin.

“What do you mean?” His voice was low, restrained, each word seemingly costly.

“I confronted your boyfriend for not answering your messages,” Hudson said directly, not looking away. “Maybe… that was too much?”

Connor’s face paled, his breathing quickened, almost imperceptibly.

“What…? Why?” he whispered, disbelief and another unnamed emotion blending in his tone.

Hudson shrugged, as if it were obvious, jaw tense.

“He was being an asshole to you.”

“But Huddy… no… you…” Connor set his drink on the coffee table, elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands, letting out a sigh that seemed to draw all the air from the room.

“But it worked, didn’t it?” Hudson said, his voice sharp. “Cheers to the Dead Rising!”

He quoted the message Connor had sent him that morning, but the tone was so cutting that Connor didn’t know whether to be angry or laugh. He couldn’t do either.

“But it’s none of your business,” Connor said, voice trapped between his fingers covering his face.

“Excuse me?” Hudson frowned, lips pursed in surprise.

“It’s none of your damn business,” Connor said, not raising his voice, but Hudson felt it as a shout. Every word was charged with contained annoyance, a blade cutting the air between them. Connor leaned forward a bit on the sofa, shoulders tense, as if every muscle were alert.

“I told you François needed time, I told you he has all this jealousy crap against you because you know too much about me, I told you everything… damn it, why did you think it was a good idea to tell him something like that?”

Hudson’s heart skipped a beat. He’d never seen him like that, never been spoken to with that intensity, never been looked at that way.

“Why are you mad at me?” Hudson asked, voice low, sad, but with a sharp edge of reproach that didn’t disappear.

“Because I don’t want your involvement in my relationship to make things worse,” Connor almost shouted, but didn’t, though the echo seemed to fill every corner of the room.

“Oh, please,” Hudson rolled his eyes, turning his head, as if the gesture alone could disarm Connor’s anger—or perhaps deliberately make it worse. “He didn’t say shit. And you… you didn’t say anything either to make him come back, right? Don’t you think confronting him like that is exactly why he finally went to… lick your balls?”

“Would you feel okay if I suddenly got involved in your fight with Kiley?” Connor said through clenched teeth, jaw tense, eyes fixed on Hudson as if expecting an immediate reaction.

“What does Kiley have to do with—” Hudson started, but the sentence hung in the air before he could finish.

“IT’S THE SAME!” Connor suddenly shouted, his voice echoing through the small apartment, making Hudson’s body shiver. The intensity of the scream filled the room, each word a blow pushing him back. “IT’S THE SAME FUCKING SHIT, HUDSON!”

Hudson stayed still, hands trembling slightly. His breathing grew faster, shorter. Every muscle in his body was alert, as if the air itself between them was charged with electricity.

Hudson…

Hudson…

Hudson…

The repetition of his name echoed in his mind like an unexpected, deep, strange reverberation. It was just his name… but the way Connor had said it pierced him completely. The mix of anger, desperation, and vulnerability in Connor’s voice made it something else, something painfully impersonal.

Hudson blinked, trying to comprehend. Stupid, right? It was just his name. Why did it hurt so much to hear Connor say it that way? Not Huddy… Hudson. His heart raced, blow after blow, and a strange warmth rose through his chest, flooding him with a confusing mix of tension, anger, and something he didn’t want to recognize.

“I get it…” Hudson whispered finally, voice barely a broken thread. “Forgive me.”

He stood slowly, as if every step required conscious effort. He walked to the kitchen and poured the rest of his drink into the sink, trying to calm the pressure in his chest and the knot rising in his throat. He felt horrible. This was perhaps the first real fight he’d had with Connor, and even though he knew he was right, that Connor’s anger was justified, the pain hit him in ways he couldn’t explain. Why did it hurt so much?

“Huddy…” Connor’s voice came from behind, warm, urgent. Hudson flinched.

“Can you leave?” Hudson asked, voice trembling. “I… need…”

“Huddy…” Connor repeated, more insistent this time.

“Please?”

Before Hudson could step away, Connor closed the distance between them. He wrapped his arms around Hudson’s waist from behind, resting his forehead on the back of his neck. Hudson’s body trembled slightly at the proximity, every muscle tense yet unable to move away. The emotions swirling in his chest began to overflow, a whirlwind of guilt, fear, and strange relief he didn’t know how to handle.

“I was worried,” his voice cracked. “You were hurting, and I…” —Hudson swallowed hard and looked away, torn between guilt and anger that burned inside him.

Connor held him firmly by the waist and turned to face him. Hudson averted his gaze, unable to meet Connor’s eyes. But Connor, gently and decisively, lifted his chin, forcing him to look. He tried to look away, but Connor didn’t let him.

“Forgive me,” Connor whispered, face strained, breath uneven. “I’m really sorry… I shouldn’t have…”—he closed his eyes for a moment, dizzy from the intensity of his own emotions, as if the entire world had compressed into that instant, into them.

“He looked for you after that,” Hudson said, voice barely a trembling thread, full of emotion.

“But it could have gone the other way, couldn’t it?” Connor replied, tone soft again. “He has all this crap in his head about our relationship… he could’ve interpreted it much worse.”

Hudson looked at him, processing every word. He took a deep breath and said firmly:

“Now I understand, I won’t do it again.”

He took a step back, as if needing space, but Connor’s hand closed gently over his wrist, stopping him. The contact was brief, but enough to make Hudson’s heart race.

“You’re my best friend,” Connor said, voice firm but sincere.

Hudson exhaled through his nose, a sound between irony and bitterly contained laughter, as if trying to disarm Connor with his attitude.

“And I think…” Connor started, holding back, brow slightly furrowed, “involving you in a fight with my boyfriend, like that… might be off-limits.”

“You already told me,” Hudson said, reluctantly, low and rough, “and I… promised I wouldn’t do it again.”

Hudson’s resentment felt like a weight crushing him, pressing him slightly downward. Shoulders tense, fists clenched tightly, each word a conscious effort. He inhaled deeply, letting the air fill his lungs, trying to calm the knot forming in his throat. Then he looked at Connor.

“You yelled at me,” he accused, voice barely trembling. “I didn’t… I can’t believe that you…”

Hudson resented that Connor dared to raise his voice, cross a line they had never crossed before. But he had to admit that what hurt most, even if he wouldn’t admit it, was the way Connor had said his name. He felt ridiculous.

“Forgive me,” Connor whispered, face tense.

“You already did,” Hudson replied, a thread of frustration in his voice.

“You haven’t forgiven me,” Connor insisted, voice barely a whisper, urgent.

“No,” Hudson confessed, gaze evasive, focused on some point in the apartment other than Connor.

Connor leaned toward him, cupping his face carefully, thumbs stroking Hudson’s skin gently, as if every touch could erase a bit of pain.

“I’ll never do it again,” Connor promised, with sincerity that left no doubt.

Connor was honest. Never, ever in his life did he think he’d raise his voice at anyone, much less Hudson. He had even been startled when his own shout echoed in his ears, as if it came from someone else. And though just moments ago he had shouted out of fear and panic at the situation, he knew it didn’t justify it.

He had been scared because he himself had dragged Hudson into the mess of his relationship. He had been pathetic, incapable of handling his own feelings, forcing his friend to intervene, to take action where he had failed. But what scared him most was François misinterpreting everything, seeing in Hudson’s actions more than a friend defending another. Connor knew he might be being foolish, but at that moment he couldn’t be reasonable.

Hudson and François were the most important men in his life. Just imagining having to choose between them, or living in a world where coexisting was nearly impossible, filled him with terror. So yes, he shouted. He shouted because he was selfish, because he let fear consume him. He shouted because he wanted both of them, even if impossible, in a scenario where he could feel safe and calm.

Also, he was nervous about everything going on. The pressure wasn’t just from François, but from CAA, Crave, recordings, contracts, third-party interference that seemed to complicate everything. He had so much shit on top of him that he became someone incapable of controlling himself, momentarily not assertive.

Connor’s hands were shaking before he even noticed. And like a coward afraid of the truth, he exploded at the least guilty one: Hudson.

Because, deep down, Connor knew he harbored the same doubt Hudson had had about François, and that certainty made him feel miserable, unworthy, trapped in his own insecurity. He felt ridiculous, almost unworthy to even think it. How could he dare doubt his own boyfriend? François, who had always been there, constant, reliable? Guilt crushed his chest, mingling with fear, selfishness, and despair.

Connor was terrified. Completely.

“Fine,” Hudson said, a sad smile that reached his eyes. “Maybe a month wasn’t enough time,” his voice cracked, the knot in his throat threatening to explode. “Maybe I’m the one who most needs to reconsider the boundaries I have as a friend.”

He threw his head back, releasing Connor’s firm grip on his face. Connor lowered his eyes, paralyzed, unable to find words. The silence between them grew heavy, almost tangible, charged with unspoken words.

“I was an idiot,” Hudson said, painfully calm. “And I apologize for that, but…”—he lifted Connor’s face gently, forcing him to look—“…if we reach the point of disrespecting each other, like I did, like you just did…”—he shrugged, as if his words could vanish into the air—“I’d rather step away…”

“Shut up,” Connor cut him off, voice broken and dangerous. “Don’t you dare say something like that.”

Hudson bit his lower lip, holding back a sigh, trying to stay calm while studying him. His eyes softened, but the tension remained, vibrant, between them.

“I suppose I’ll have to start reconsidering our boundaries,” Hudson murmured, gaze fixed on Connor. “You already started, didn’t you?”

With a slow motion, Hudson took Connor’s wrist and lifted it toward the space between them. Where his bracelet should have been, Connor wasn’t wearing it. The contrast was brutal: Hudson’s own bracelet, gleaming under the dim kitchen light, next to Connor’s bare wrist.

Connor paled. His body tensed. His heart pounded, a sudden chill running down his back.

Hudson walked toward the living room, but really headed to the bedroom, seeking space, solitude… anything to separate from Connor. Connor almost ran after him, and on impulse grabbed his arm halfway. Hudson stopped in his tracks, as if the world had frozen with him.

“You’re misinterpreting it,” Connor said, voice trembling, trying to calm something even he didn’t understand.

Hudson turned, eyes burning with frustration.

“I don’t give a fuck about your explanation. I want you to leave, I want to be alone.”

Connor didn’t release his arm. The tension between them was electric, almost painful.

“I mean it, Connor. Leave.”

Just then, the door opened. Kiley appeared, carrying Gizmo in one arm and a bag of litter in the other. Her eyes swept the scene in seconds, a hint of confusion crossing them. Something was happening, she could feel it.

Connor let go of Hudson’s arm too quickly, a brusque movement that made him seem suspicious. Kiley followed the action with her eyes, then looked at Hudson. He cleared his throat and almost ran to help with the bag or Gizmo, whichever she offered first.

“Hi, Kiley,” Connor said, just as Hudson gave his girlfriend a brief kiss on the lips. Kiley looked at him, puzzled, as if still trying to read what was happening.

“Hi, Connor,” she said, voice calm but gaze absent, lost in something she didn’t understand. “Are you staying for dinner?”

“No,” Hudson responded too quickly, too sharply. “Connor’s leaving.” Then he looked at him with a glimmer of contained pleading. “Right?”

Connor’s chest tightened as if an invisible fist squeezed him. He knew any word would be too much, that there was no way to continue the conversation without breaking something.

“Uh… yes,” he said awkwardly, voice tense. “Have a good afternoon.”

He headed to the door, every step feeling the pressure of his own thoughts. Hudson stepped aside, pulling Kiley alongside him. Connor put on his shoes and grabbed his jacket. Hudson walked with Kiley to the living room with Gizmo in his arms. Kiley glanced over her shoulder at Connor, then returned her gaze to Hudson, trying to ignore what she had caught in a few seconds.

When Connor opened the door, Hudson didn’t glance at him—and didn’t even look back as the door shut, leaving Connor on the other side.

Chapter End Notes

Please, don’t hate me… 😅 I know this has been a total drama, right? 😬 I’m sorry, but it was necessary for the story to develop. In my defense, this is an angst fanfic 😭💔: I can’t promise the drama will disappear, but I can promise there will be plenty of sweet and romantic moments.

I also understand if some of you feel the story is moving “slow” 🐢, especially those here for HudCon, but I’m not a fan of rushed developments. I need to build a solid foundation that can lead to something bigger and more meaningful.

So, I’m just asking… please, don’t hate me 😢. Don’t leave me! 🙏💛

Chapter 6: A Fragile Truce

Chapter Notes

Hudson had barely twenty minutes to get out of the apartment. He had a flight scheduled to Toronto, where the script reading for the first episode would take place directly at CRAVE’s offices. Everyone who happened to be in Vancouver at the time had agreed to meet at the airport at seven sharp—no exceptions. The flight lasted four to five hours, and with the time difference stacked on top of that, Hudson knew exactly what it meant: landing, fast food, professional smiles, and nonstop work well into the night. Maybe straight through dawn.

Just doing the math exhausted him before he even stepped out the door. It was that anticipatory fatigue—not physical yet, but mental—a kind of pressure settling behind his eyes. It wasn’t only the hours locked in conference rooms talking about emotional nuance and creative decisions; it was everything piling up around the start of the second season. The expectations. The pressure. Connor.

Connor.

It wasn’t the first time he’d read the script. In fact, he’d gone through the entire thing over a month earlier, when Jacob had insisted on an early read so they could make adjustments without rushing. The plan had always been to revisit it right before filming began, but schedules had turned into an impossible puzzle. Connor in Los Angeles, Hudson in Paris, crisscrossing flights, commitments stacked on top of commitments. In the end, Jacob had been firm: they’d meet the day before shooting started, no matter what it took.

Truthfully, Jacob wasn’t too worried about whether they reread it or not. During the first season, everyone had been aligned—focused, professional to the point of exhaustion. This time, though, there were more layers. More history. It was necessary to stop and dig into the nuances, the emotional undercurrents of every scene, to make sure both Hudson and Connor understood not just what was happening, but why it was happening.

It helped—a lot—that both of them had read the books the series was based on. They knew their characters almost intimately, like they’d lived inside them long before stepping in front of a camera. Jacob, fully aware of that, had always given them room to speak up, to challenge script decisions, to be honest about what their character would do… and what they absolutely fucking wouldn’t.

Hudson, for example, had spent months resisting the idea of growing his hair out for season two. He said he hated it, that it made him uncomfortable, that he’d rather get his head chopped off than have to wear a goddamn man bun. He’d even gone as far as begging Jacob to reconsider, insisting it wasn’t a relevant detail to the story.

But Jacob didn’t budge.

To him, the change mattered. It was a subtle way of showing the passage of time, the wear, the growth—or the weight—carried by Shane Hollander. And even though Hudson still wasn’t convinced, he knew that, like so many other things on that show, it wasn’t just about aesthetics. It was about what the character could no longer hide.

So that morning, Hudson tried to tame his hair, now brushing the base of his neck—it hadn’t grown as much as Jacob had hoped—and ended up getting mildly pissed when he couldn’t quite figure out how to style it so it wouldn’t look like shit. He tried a couple of times in front of the mirror, ran his fingers through the strands in frustration, and eventually decided not to waste any more time.

He cast one last glance at the bracelet resting on the low table beneath the mirror. The dim light in the room made it gleam almost unnecessarily, like it was deliberately trying to get his attention. He picked it up and held it longer than he meant to. The white gold felt cold against his skin, familiar, far too loaded with meaning for something so small.

Without thinking too much—or thinking way too much, which was exactly the problem—he opened the drawer and left it inside. The sound was soft, barely a scrape against the wood, but in his chest it felt final. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t an announced decision. It was just a pause. A new boundary, even if he didn’t yet know how to name it.

He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on as he headed for the door. Before leaving, he avoided looking at the mirror. He closed the bedroom door carefully behind him and stepped into the hallway, carrying with him a different kind of silence than before.

Kiley was in the kitchen, her back to him, carefully pouring cream into two cups of coffee. Breakfast was already laid out on the table—not elaborate, but intentional. Everything in its place, like almost everything she did. Hudson froze in the doorway, feeling the air catch in his chest for a second.

Seeing her there, moving naturally through a space they’d built together over years, hit him hard. That apartment already knew their schedules, their routines, their silences. Kiley making sure he ate before leaving, timing things so they could both get where they needed to be—it was such an intimate domestic scene that it stirred a deep sense of gratitude in him… and right beneath it, a guilt he couldn’t quite place.

He’d slept beside her the night before, but rest hadn’t come. He’d tossed and turned, trapped in the persistent memory of the fight with Connor. At some point, he’d turned his phone off. Not out of indifference, but fear—fear of messages piling up, of his anxiety becoming visible… more visible. Kiley wasn’t naïve. She’d noticed immediately that something was off, but she’d offered space instead of questions. That careful silence weighed on him more than any accusation ever could have.

Hudson took a deep breath, like the act itself might organize what was churning inside him and let him keep functioning. He stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his body against hers with a familiarity that came naturally. He leaned in to kiss her cheek, but that morning she didn’t let him. She turned her head just slightly, a minimal movement, almost elegant in how subtle it was. So slight that for a second Hudson wondered if he’d imagined it.

He tried again, clumsily restrained, and this time Kiley pulled away with a rushed excuse about not having served Gizmo’s food yet. Nothing serious. Nothing explicit. And still, something tightened in his chest with an uncomfortable pressure, like he’d stumbled over an invisible edge.

They hadn’t argued the night before. They’d watched a movie together, sharing the couch, the comfortable silence of the familiar. They’d held hands. They’d kissed. They hadn’t fucked—not because Hudson didn’t want to; it just hadn’t been the mood. Or was that what he was telling himself now to make it easier? The doubt settled in with its own weight, unpleasant, refusing to go away.

“Is something wrong?” Hudson asked, unable to hide the confusion in his voice.

Kiley was crouched in front of Gizmo’s bowl. She looked up slowly, as if the question had reached her late, or as if it had had to travel too far to get to her.

“Huh?” she said.

Something tightened in Hudson’s chest at the same time his stomach dropped. Some things didn’t need explaining. He knew her too well. The dark circles under her eyes were deeper than usual, the skin around them slightly swollen, reddened in a way he recognized instantly.

“Did you cry?” he asked, and his body moved before he could think, stepping toward her almost abruptly.

Kiley smiled right away. Too fast. A light, practiced smile, paired with a soft laugh that didn’t quite hold.

“Yeah,” she said. “Last night’s movie. Did you forget?”

Hudson nodded slowly. Of course he remembered. Kiley had cried during La vita è bella, had buried her face against his chest in more than one scene, like she always did with movies like that. And still, something didn’t sit right.

It wasn’t just exhaustion. It wasn’t only the trace of tears. It was the way she avoided holding his gaze, the forced lightness in her voice—too polished to be spontaneous. Hudson watched her a second longer than usual and knew it, with an uncomfortable certainty: Kiley was lying to him.

***

By the time Connor arrived at the airport, he had the distinct feeling his head was about to split in two. He wore dark sunglasses and a cap pulled low over his brows almost on instinct, like he always did when daylight burned his eyes and threatened to trigger a migraine bad enough to knock him out cold. The airport noise—rolling suitcases, loudspeaker announcements, overlapping conversations—cut through his skull like a series of short, precise blows.

François walked beside him, quieter than usual, his attention fixed on something Connor didn’t need to see to recognize. They’d both spent the morning focused on the same thing: social media, improvised headlines, the multiplying comments since the photos from the Vancouver airport had gone public. They’d known it would happen; they’d talked about it. What they hadn’t anticipated was the tone.

Most of the comments were cruel. Not just from fans, but from media outlets that jumped shamelessly onto the easy judgment. No one seemed inclined to take the situation with humor. It was framed as arrogance, as if recent fame had gone to their heads and now they thought themselves untouchable, distant, disconnected from reality. Connor wasn’t surprised—nothing about the internet surprised him anymore—but he was tired. Bone-deep, accumulated exhaustion.

He’d never imagined there were so many people willing to dump frustration and hate so casually. From the very first time he’d posted something with François—a short video, the two of them sharing a glass of champagne, smiling without posing—the negative comments hadn’t stopped. Hostile. Resistant. As if the mere existence of that relationship were a personal betrayal to people who’d projected a different story in their heads.

Connor understood, in theory, where it came from. He knew many of the people who’d followed the first season of Heated Rivalry wanted to see a romantic storyline develop between him and Hudson. He understood it… up to a point. What he couldn’t accept was that in the process, they trampled all over the man he loved. Reduced him to an obstacle, a mistake, something that needed to disappear for the fantasy to work.

And as almost always, the blows landed harder on François. Connor knew it; he’d seen it happen too many times to ignore it. That was why the guilt weighed heavier than usual that morning. Because he knew—with uncomfortable clarity—that part of his boyfriend’s idea had been to distract him. To lighten the trip. To make him laugh. And he also knew that, deep down, François had expected something like this to happen.

It had happened before. When they’d been caught leaving a movie theater together at night. Back then, the relationship was just beginning; they moved carefully, testing ground they didn’t yet know was solid. They’d tried to hide behind the most comfortable version of the story: coworkers becoming friends, making plans together. But there were too many watchful eyes, too much willingness to read between the lines. Half of them hadn’t bought it.

And at the time, Connor hadn’t given a shit. He didn’t mind people imagining things; in the end, they weren’t that far from the truth. He’d never been good at pretending, nor particularly interested in it. But now, with all the noise piling up, with twisted headlines and sharp comments, the question lodged itself inside him like an open wound: wasn’t he human? Did being a public figure automatically strip him of the right to feel, to fall in love, to fuck up?

And François? Was no one thinking about François? About the fact that he had skin, pride, fear? That he read those comments too, even if he said he didn’t? That he could break, just like anyone else?

Connor clenched his jaw, feeling the mix of anger and guilt rise in his chest. It wasn’t just the external noise suffocating him. It was the certainty that, without fully meaning to, he’d exposed the man he loved to a violence that should never have reached him.

François walked beside him with a faint frown, as if trying to focus on anything that wasn’t the screen in front of him. He didn’t look relaxed; he looked contained. Connor noticed without looking directly at him, by the tension in his jaw, by the way his steps went slightly out of rhythm whenever his thumb lingered too long on the phone.

“Don’t read that,” Connor said finally, unable to stay quiet anymore. “Seriously, it’s not worth it. In two days they’ll forget about it.”

François didn’t answer right away. He lowered the phone, held it there for a few seconds as if letting go took real effort, and only then slipped it into his coat pocket.

“It’s hard not to,” he admitted, with a brief smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You think you’re prepared… and then you’re not.”

That honesty hurt Connor more than any attempt at dramatizing it.

“You shouldn’t have to go through this,” Connor said quietly. “Not like this. Not over something that has more to do with me than with you.”

François shook his head slowly, like he’d already walked that argument to the end.

“Don’t start,” he replied. “It’s not your fault people are cruel. Besides…” He paused, searching for the words. “I knew this could happen.”

I knew.

The phrase lodged itself in Connor’s chest.

Because yes, they knew. Connor knew too. Or thought he did. The way you know it’s going to rain someday, without imagining the actual cold of the water or how it seeps straight into your bones.

“Knowing doesn’t make it any less violent,” Connor insisted. “It’s not part of the deal that you get treated like you’re disposable.”

François looked at him then. This time there was no indulgence in his eyes, just a deeper kind of exhaustion.

“I’m fine,” he said, though his voice didn’t quite support the claim. “Just… let me handle it my way, okay? I don’t want this to eat you alive.”

And there it was. Right there. The real blow.

Connor understood that François wasn’t minimizing it out of strength, but out of necessity. Because if he let himself feel it fully, he might not know how to keep walking. And that way of enduring—silent and alone—hurt more than any insult lost on a screen.

The airport was surprisingly calm. A few photos taken from a distance, curious glances that slid past without daring to cross the line, but no one approached them directly. Connor appreciated it more than he was willing to admit. The migraine had him on the edge of nausea; every sound vibrated in his head like a sharp, insistent strike.

They entered the VIP lounge where they were supposed to meet the rest of the team, and Connor’s heart gave an uncomfortable jolt the moment he saw him. Hudson was sitting in one of the chairs, brow slightly furrowed, finger scrolling across his phone with a concentration that seemed deliberate. Absorbed. Distant. So close, and at the same time so fucking out of reach, that Connor’s chest tightened.

Since the night before—since he’d left Hudson’s apartment, even before François had gone back home—Connor hadn’t stopped texting him. Maybe he’d been too insistent, too intense. But this was, maybe, their first real fight. The first time Hudson had been genuinely angry. Connor didn’t know how to move in this new territory, or what distance to keep without making things worse.

“Good morning,” Connor and François greeted almost in unison.

The rest of the team looked up immediately, returning the greeting with smiles and brief comments. Everyone except Hudson.

Connor responded almost on reflex, removing his sunglasses so he wouldn’t seem rude, even though the light stabbed at his eyes. Even then, he didn’t look away from Hudson. He remained seated, body slightly leaned forward, phone in hand, as if Connor’s arrival didn’t warrant any reaction at all.

Hudson’s distance—that conscious decision not to look for him, not to grant him so much as a glance—hit Connor like a blunt punch to the gut. It wasn’t just distance; it was exclusion. Something deliberate. Something that shut him out. He felt his stomach knot, the migraine throb harder behind his eyes, until the burning became unbearable and he had to put his sunglasses back on, grateful for the shade, for the chance to hide how fragile he felt in that moment.

This was new between them. Radically new.

Almost against his will, Connor replayed their shared history, as if searching for a previous crack that might justify this moment. They’d never agreed on everything, but part of the magic—that almost childlike conviction that the universe had put them on the same path on purpose—was that even in disagreement, they understood each other with disarming ease. Thinking differently had never been a problem. Arguing had never hurt. It was as natural as breaking off a piece of chocolate and sharing it: simple, everyday, consequence-free.

Until now.

Because this time it was about Connor’s fear. That selfish need to keep everything balanced, to lose nothing, to try and hold everything together at once. And the price was right there, clear and tangible, embodied in Hudson’s silence.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, frozen in the middle of the lounge, his body angled toward Hudson as if something stronger than his own will were holding him in place. Seconds, maybe minutes. The world kept moving around him—voices overlapping, footsteps, muted laughter—but Connor only felt that targeted absence, that stubborn refusal that tightened his chest.

It was François’s hand on his back that brought him back. A light touch, almost measured, like he was afraid of breaking him. Connor inhaled sharply, blinked behind his sunglasses, and looked at him, startled by how suddenly present he felt.

“Are you okay?” François asked quietly.

His eyes flicked, just for a second, toward the corner where Hudson was still sitting, unmoving, not lifting his gaze. He understood immediately. Not because Connor had told him—there hadn’t been the chance or the energy—but because the distance between them was too obvious, a crack that pulled the air tight. François had come home late the night before, after the color grading test for Hermès, when Connor was already asleep. Even so, no context was needed. They’d fought. And it wasn’t impossible that someone else had noticed too: the discomfort seeped through the room with the clarity of a badly placed silence.

“My head is killing me,” Connor said. “I need to take something… or I’m going to puke on the flight. Or maybe the pressure will finish the job and my head will just fucking explode.”

He forced a half-smile that fooled no one—least of all François. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched, his whole body running on pure inertia. François stepped a little closer, just enough to be there without crowding him, and rested a hand on his forearm.

Connor appreciated that gesture more than he could say. But even that touch couldn’t fully ease the pressure crushing his chest. Because he knew it wasn’t just the migraine. It was Hudson. It was the silence. It was everything they weren’t saying.

“Do you want to sit down?” François asked softly.

Connor nodded. They walked a few steps and settled into the chairs arranged diagonally from where Hudson remained, about five meters away. Close enough to feel his presence. Far enough to hurt.

“I’ll go get you something for the migraine.”

François was already standing when Connor reacted—fast, almost desperate. He grabbed his hand and shook his head.

“Please… stay.”

The plea came out unfiltered, and the moment the words left his mouth, Connor felt like shit. Truly, deeply shit. He’d rather endure the fucking pain than be alone. He knew, with an uncomfortable clarity that squeezed his chest, that if François stood up, he’d end up walking toward Hudson. But Hudson wasn’t ready to talk. And Connor didn’t want to force it either. Any attempt in public would push him to give in out of sheer social pressure, to say something just because everyone would be watching. Hudson would never want that.

Right now, François was his anchor. His excuse not to do something impulsive. His buffer against the whirlwind of emotions threatening to drown him.

And he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve François at all.

François sat back down without a word. Connor knew him too well: he knew he was holding back. That he wanted to take his hand, pull the cap off, rest Connor’s head against his chest and run his fingers through his hair until the pain eased. But he didn’t. Not there. Not in front of everyone.

Since they’d been together, they shared an unspoken agreement: keep their relationship out of the public eye. They both knew that most of the team—if not all of them—suspected or even knew the truth, but there was a quiet respect that kept any comments at bay. For them, separating the personal from the professional was essential. Making their bond visible didn’t just invite looks and whispers; it also exposed the possibility that any professional stumble could bleed into what they had together. And that was exactly what they were trying to protect.

It was very similar to what CRAVE had made clear from the start: they couldn’t forbid the relationship, but they couldn’t allow it to become a visible narrative either. Every public decision carried weight. Every gesture could shift the perception of the series—and that included them. If something went wrong—a poor reception, an internal conflict, even a breakup—there would always be someone ready to point at the relationship as the cause. CAA operated on similar logic. Connor and François understood it well: the smallest slip could be reinterpreted as a personal problem. And the last thing they wanted was for their life together to get caught in crossfire that didn’t belong to them. What they had needed to stay safe. Whole. Protected.

After a few minutes, Jacob was the one who broke the silence.

He approached with a decisive stride and, without asking permission, lifted Connor’s head by the chin, forcing him to face him.

“Are you okay?”

Connor nodded, but lowered his head almost immediately, like even that gesture was too much. Light leaked in around the edges of the lenses and burned his eyes.

“It’s just a migraine,” he murmured, his voice reduced to a thread.

“Did you take anything yet?”

Connor shook his head. Before he could add anything, François stepped in, saying he’d go get medicine. Jacob nodded with a brief, urgent gesture. François slid out of the chair and left the lounge.

Jacob sighed and, without warning, took Connor’s sunglasses off. Connor let out a soft groan and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Take these off,” he said. “If you get your eyes used to the dark, the light’s going to hit you worse later. Let them adjust little by little. Once you take the meds, your brain will fucking thank you.”

The tone wasn’t authoritative. It was practical. Almost paternal. And Connor, even with his head pounding, appreciated it.

Before walking away, Jacob ran a hand over Connor’s head through the cap and gave his shoulder a couple of light pats. It’ll pass, he seemed to say without words.

And just as Connor had anticipated, without Jacob or François nearby to hold him in place, his attention drifted back to the one place he didn’t want to look.

Hudson.

This time he wasn’t absorbed in his phone.

He was looking at him.

Connor forgot how to breathe for a full second. The exchange was brief, but dense. There was no smile. No relief. Hudson’s eyes were cold, almost empty, holding his for just a fraction too long before breaking away. The irritation returned to his face as soon as he dropped his gaze back to the screen.

But Connor knew it. Maybe it was egocentric to think so, but he knew it: Hudson was still angry with him. And still—despite everything—when he sensed that something might be wrong with Connor, Hudson had stopped to look at him. Worried.

Connor knew because, if their roles had been reversed, he would have done exactly the same.

***

The team boarded the plane a little after eight. Part of the production was already in Toronto; the rest—including them—were flying that same day. Hudson walked down the aisle beside Jacob and immediately noticed the difference from the first flight they’d taken at the start of season one.

This time, they were in first class.

The cabin was dominated by whites and grays that, paired with the soft overhead lighting, washed the space in a gentle, almost unreal blue. The light wasn’t harsh; it felt designed to envelop rather than impose. The seats were wide and deeply cushioned, alternating between black and dark gray, with broad armrests and backs that promised comfort even on a long flight. Everything was meant to isolate them from the outside world, as if the plane were a capsule suspended in midair.

“You can take the window if you want,” Jacob said, pointing to the seat across from him.

“Oh, no,” Hudson replied, waving his hands dramatically. “If something goes wrong, I want my family to know exactly which seat I was in.”

Jacob raised an eyebrow, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“You know,” Hudson said lightly, half-smiling. “On planes you can never change seats. And if shit goes sideways, at least I want them to know where to find me.”

Jacob shook his head, amused, as Hudson settled into the aisle seat.

Connor was already sprawled out when Hudson boarded. He was sitting directly across the aisle, also on the outer seat. François had the window, leaning slightly toward him. Hudson didn’t want to look—he hadn’t planned to, not consciously—but it was impossible not to notice how bad Connor looked.

He’d taken his jacket off and pulled one sleeve over his eyes, as if the fabric could shield him from the light and the noise. Hudson had vaguely overheard an earlier conversation with Jacob and knew enough: migraine.

He watched François lean in, carefully hand him a pill, murmur something Hudson couldn’t hear. Connor nodded faintly, barely moving. Hudson looked away before he could get caught watching.

He pulled out his phone and texted Kiley: Boarding. I’ll text when we land.

The reply came almost immediately. A single heart.

Hudson’s stomach sank.

He knew Kiley had something. It wasn’t paranoia or guilt speaking louder than it should; it was a quiet certainty, the kind that settles in without asking permission. Breakfast that morning had been uncomfortable in a way that was hard to name. She’d barely spoken, and every attempt Hudson made to start a conversation had lingered in the air, dying on contact with distracted, half-hearted responses—as if she were present on autopilot.

Hudson had been washing the dishes with a speed that bordered on anxiety, even knowing he was still well within the twenty-minute window he had before leaving for the airport. The water ran harder than necessary, the noise filling the kitchen as if it could drown everything else out.

That was when Kiley spoke from the doorway. She told him she was leaving. That she was taking Gizmo with her. She said it without reproach, without emphasis, almost casually. Hudson barely managed to turn his head.

There was no goodbye kiss. No hug. Not even the automatic brush they always found— even on bad days.

Nothing.

He’d replayed the night before over and over, searching for the exact point where something might have gone wrong. He couldn’t find it. There hadn’t been an argument. They’d watched a movie together, shared the couch, the familiar, comfortable silence. Nothing that explained the sudden distance. And yet—it was there.

He rested his head against the seatback and let out a tired, audible sigh. He took his phone out again, this time with the clear intention of being direct, of asking what was wrong, of not letting unnecessary silences pile up. His fingers hovered over the screen for a few seconds…

Then he put it away again.

Not now.

He told himself maybe he was overreacting. Maybe Kiley was just stressed about what was coming: months of shooting, long absences, impossible schedules. Maybe it was the same old fear, resurfacing under a different name. Maybe, like other times, things would tighten before settling back into place.

That was what he wanted to believe.

Hudson wasn’t sure how many hours they’d been flying. Time inside the plane had grown hazy, measured only by the constant hum of the engines and the artificial calm of the first-class cabin. His head was tilted against the seatback, his body surrendered to a light sleep, when something hit him square in the face.

He jerked awake.

Connor’s jacket had fallen over him, still warm, tossed carelessly in the abrupt motion of sitting up. Hudson barely had time to react before he saw Connor stand sharply, shove his seat back, and move straight down the wide aisle.

There was plenty of room in first class to move comfortably, but Connor didn’t allow himself a pause. He crossed the long aisle in a few quick strides, back rigid, head down, one hand briefly clenching into a fist before he disappeared toward the bathroom.

“Shit…” Jacob muttered, already sitting up.

François reacted a second later. He got up abruptly, still disoriented from interrupted sleep, and followed with a quick pace. He didn’t run, but he didn’t let himself get distracted either. A flight attendant looked up from the back of the cabin, alert, tracking the scene with professional discretion, but she didn’t intervene.

Hudson watched it all from his seat, still halfway between sleep and wakefulness. It took him a few seconds to piece together what was happening, to connect the image of Connor disappearing down the aisle with the uncomfortable sensation that had already settled in his stomach. He turned his head toward Jacob, who stood motionless in the aisle, brow furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line.

Hudson leaned down to pick up the jacket that had landed on his legs and folded it carefully, as if that small act might restore some normalcy to the scene. He placed it on the empty seat beside him and reached for his headphones, more out of reflex than need.

Just before putting them on, the sound reached them.

Muffled by the plane’s walls, softened by distance—but unmistakable.

Connor was throwing up.

Hudson’s stomach clenched instantly, an automatic, almost violent reaction. He planted one hand on the armrest and tightened his fingers without realizing it, like he needed to anchor himself to something solid.

He looked up.

François was standing in front of the bathroom door, occupying part of the wide aisle. He didn’t move. His forehead rested against his forearm, braced against the doorframe, his body leaning forward in a posture of exhaustion and restraint. His other hand hung at his side, fingers barely curled.

He was just waiting.

Minutes passed. Long ones. Heavy ones—the kind that stretch far beyond what they should. Finally, the bathroom door opened. Connor stepped out slowly.

François reacted immediately. He held the door and placed a steady, reassuring hand on Connor’s shoulder, as if afraid he might lose his balance. Connor was pale, his skin lighter than usual, almost translucent under the cabin’s soft light. He’d washed his face; the damp hair on his forehead gave him away, and a drop of water slid down his hand as he wiped his face again, without much energy.

Hudson looked up—and forced himself to look away almost immediately when Connor’s eyes met his.

It was only a second, maybe less, but it was enough to feel something tighten painfully in his chest. The impulse was immediate, almost aching: to ask if he was okay, to stand up, to say anything that would break the absurd distance between them.

Fuck, he was worried.

But he didn’t do it.

Even if things between them had been fine—if that heavy silence, that open wound, didn’t exist—Hudson wouldn’t have felt entitled to. Not there. Not with François so close. Ever since he’d understood how François felt about his presence—and knowing it wasn’t personal, that it came from insecurity rather than contempt—Hudson knew he had to learn to be more careful. To measure gestures. To hold words back.

And since that brief encounter at Hermès, that caution had become almost unavoidable.

Hudson was no longer sure they could go back to relating the way they had before.

Or maybe they could… maybe it was him seeing cracks where there was only passing discomfort.

Connor walked past him without stopping. Not even the recent vomiting had erased that familiar scent from his skin: fresh tangerines. Hudson caught it as he passed, brief but unmistakable, and the memory hit his stomach without warning.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Connor grab his personal bag from the armrest compartment. He unzipped it with hands still slightly clumsy and pulled out a small case: a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste.

“Here,” François said, handing him a face towel.

Connor accepted it with a barely perceptible nod and went back into the bathroom, his steps slower this time.

Hudson followed him with his eyes only as far as he allowed himself to. He watched Connor pause before entering to say something to the flight attendant. From the way he tilted his head, from the small movement of his hands, Hudson knew—because he knew him too well—that he was apologizing.

For the inconvenience.
For the mess.

***

Connor felt strangely renewed after throwing up. The pressure from the altitude had pushed the migraine to its breaking point, dragging him into that uncomfortable place where the body stops negotiating and simply collapses. Now, the tightness behind his eyes had almost completely eased, as if someone had flipped an invisible switch inside his head.

The embarrassment of having made a small spectacle mid-flight faded just as quickly. He would throw up as many times as it took if it meant being able to think clearly again, breathe without nausea, stop feeling like his skull was about to split in two. In that moment, physical relief outweighed any sense of shame.

That relief, however, didn’t last long.

They had arrived at the Airbnb, a modern building right in downtown Toronto. Clean-lined façade, large windows, the kind of place designed for long stays and work teams who needed space without sacrificing comfort. The plan was to stay there for the first few days: spacious apartments spread across different floors, designed for small groups. Each unit had three bedrooms. In any other context, it would have been practical. Ideal, even.

Connor was still processing the exhaustion from the trip when he felt the bile rise in his throat again, that persistent burn that hadn’t fully gone away since the episode on the plane. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, trying to ignore it when Jacob stopped in the lobby and held out three sets of keys. Each one had the same number engraved on a small metal tag.

1205

“One’s yours,” Jacob said casually. “The other’s for Hudson, and the other for François.”

For a second, the world seemed to freeze.

Connor stared at the keys like he couldn’t quite understand what he was looking at. His stomach clenched hard—this time not from the migraine or the flight, but from something far more immediate.

At any other point in his life, it would have been almost idyllic. Sharing an apartment with Hudson and François. Common spaces, improvised breakfasts, comfortable silences at the end of the day. Chaotic, sure—but intimate too, shaped by the closeness that had always defined his bond with both of them.

Now, it just felt like a cruel joke.

For a brief moment—very brief—he was tempted to tell Jacob he’d rather share a place with him. The thought surfaced as a defensive reflex, a quick exit to dodge the obvious. But it disappeared almost immediately.

The unspoken agreement he had with François about their relationship landed on him with full force.

This was exactly why they kept it private.

What the hell was he supposed to say, exactly?

That his boyfriend wasn’t speaking to his best friend… and that he wasn’t speaking to his best friend either, at that moment?

That, technically, it would be easier if Hudson shared a room with Jacob?

Just thinking it sounded ridiculous. Saying it out loud would have been impossible.

Even mentally forming the excuse felt absurd. Childish. And above all, impossible to justify without raising unnecessary suspicions.

He had to be professional.

So he nodded, closed his hand around the keys, and said nothing.

What truly twisted his stomach, though, wasn’t the immediate situation—it was what came next. They’d be staying in Toronto for at least two weeks. Two full weeks of shooting, table reads, adjustments, long days. But François would only be there for four days.

Four.

His involvement in the second season was brief; his character didn’t carry recurring weight at that point in the story. That was why Jacob had decided to shoot all of Scott’s scenes first, compress them at the start of the schedule. That way, François could head to Montreal afterward, where script readings would begin in parallel for the series that would bring Scott and Kip to life. By then, Robbie G. K. would be there with him.

Hudson and Connor would travel later too, when it was time for the planned cameos. But that would be later.

Much later.

Until then, the reality was clear. And uncomfortable.

Four days.

Four days of the three of them living under the same roof: Hudson, François, and him. Four days of measured silences, calculated gestures, contained tension. And then…

Then François would leave.

And Hudson and Connor would be left alone, sharing the space.

The thought—unbidden, unwelcome—tightened into a hard knot in his chest. Not because of what might happen between him and Hudson, but because of what François might imagine once he understood the full dynamic. Once he realized that after he left, Connor and Hudson would still be there.

Together.

Sharing an apartment. An intimate space. Entire days.

Connor swallowed and cleared his throat before walking over to them.

Hudson and François stood a few steps back near the elevator, checking messages on their phones as if the trip hadn’t fully settled into their bodies yet—and avoiding, it seemed, talking to each other at all costs. Connor approached them with the keys clenched in his hand. The faint metallic jingle was almost imperceptible, but in that moment it sounded absurdly loud to him.

“Uh…” he said.

Both of them looked up almost at the same time.

Hudson was the first to meet his eyes. His expression was neutral—carefully neutral—but Connor knew him well enough to catch the tension in his jaw, the barely perceptible stiffness in his shoulders.

François took a fraction of a second longer. When he did look up, his gaze moved first over Connor’s face and then dropped to his closed hand.

To the keys.

Connor took a deep breath.

“We got 1205,” he said, keeping his tone casual, professional. “Three bedrooms.”

He opened his hand, revealing the three identical sets. For a moment, no one spoke. The silence stretched, uncomfortable, as if all three of them were processing the same information from completely different places.

Connor was the first to move. He held out one set of keys to Hudson.

The gesture was simple, almost automatic—but it cost him more than he was willing to admit. Hudson hesitated for just a second before taking them. His fingers brushed Connor’s in the exchange, a minimal, involuntary contact… and enough to make Connor’s chest tighten.

“Thanks,” Hudson said quietly.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t add anything. He slipped the keys into his jacket pocket with a precise motion, as if he needed to grab onto something solid to avoid being suspended in that moment.

Connor then turned to François and offered him the last set.

François studied him for a long second before taking it. His expression was hard to read: there was no open anger, no obvious surprise—but there was a measured, assessing attention. As if he were reading not just the situation, but Connor within it.

“Same apartment?” François asked, though the answer was obvious.

“Yeah,” Connor replied plainly. “Three separate rooms.”

François nodded slowly as he took the keys. The metal chimed softly as it landed in his palm.

“Perfect,” he said.

The word sounded right. Polite. Too right.

Connor felt an immediate stab of guilt, irrational, like he’d done something wrong without having made any choice at all. Hudson remained silent, his gaze fixed on some indeterminate point in the lobby, holding a calm Connor knew was fragile.

“I guess we go up,” Connor added, more to break the air than out of actual necessity.

“Whenever you’re ready,” François replied, already holding his phone, as if the matter were settled.

Hudson nodded once.

***

The last meeting was led by the intimacy coordinator, the dialect coach, and the physical trainer, and stretched on for a little over three hours. It was meticulous work—fine-tuning, adjusting—where every detail seemed to matter more than usual.

For this new installment, Hudson would have to say a few lines in Russian. Perfection wasn’t expected—that wasn’t the goal—but clear, believable articulation that wouldn’t break the illusion was. That meant targeted work, hours with the coach refining sounds, rhythms, accents. Connor, despite having continued to study the language even outside of filming, wasn’t off the hook either: his Russian had to hold up, deepen, sound more natural. The dialect coach took notes on both of them, marking timing, suggesting reinforcements, adjusting schedules.

At some point in the conversation, when the intimacy coordinator began talking about the new challenges of the season, Hudson and Connor shared a quick glance.

It lasted barely a second. Just enough.

There was no real surprise—they both knew the story, had read it in full long ago—but even so, the memory landed with clarity. The comment they’d made back then, half laughing, half incredulous: how the hell are these two so sexual?

What made Connor truly stop on Hudson—his gaze lingering longer this time, more attentive, a look Hudson didn’t return—was when the physical trainer started talking about the routines required for the season.

In the past, training together had been almost automatic. Hudson and Connor spent hours at the gym, shared meal plans, pushed each other to build muscle, to hit the exact point the camera demanded. It was part of their dynamic, a natural extension of the trust between them.

Now, Connor wasn’t sure that was still possible.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he still believed the fight with Hudson would pass. That when his best friend forgave him for yelling, for not wearing the fucking bracelet, for being too harsh when he shouldn’t have been, things might settle back into place. Maybe not immediately—but eventually. Maybe they could talk like they used to.

What didn’t worry him was the work on camera. On that front, he trusted them completely: Hudson and he were professionals. They’d do their jobs. They’d deliver every scene the way it was expected of them.

And, paradoxically, that was what weighed on him the most.

Having to kiss him. Having to touch him. Having to rehearse intimate choreography loaded with fake desire while real tension still pulsed between them. And then, when the cameras cut, pulling apart without a word.

Just thinking about it made Connor’s eyes sting.

When ten o’clock rolled around, Jacob called it a day and dismissed the general team. Before everyone stood up, he asked part of them to stay a little longer—including Connor and Hudson—for the reading of the first episode.

François, Callan, and Christina left with the rest of the team who weren’t needed for the read. That night, Jacob wanted to focus solely on Shane and Ilya. On nuance, tone, what still needed sharpening before filming began. For that, only Hudson and Connor needed to be there.

They moved to a smaller room on the second floor of CRAVE’s offices. The change in space made everything feel different—less formal, more focused, as if the intention were to force them to actually listen to each other.

Hudson and Connor were the first to enter. The rest of the team involved in the reading stayed outside, talking quietly while they finished setting things up. The door closed behind them with a soft, final sound.

The room was small—more intimate than Connor would have liked at that moment. A rectangular table occupied the center, with two chairs already placed facing each other. The warm lighting softened the space, but didn’t make it any less uncomfortable. On the contrary: everything felt designed to force them to be present with one another.

They didn’t speak.

Hudson set his backpack next to a chair and stayed standing, flipping distractedly through the script as if he needed to keep his hands busy. Connor did the same on the opposite side of the table, setting his down without sitting, pretending to review a page he already knew by heart. Silence settled between them—dense, heavy with everything they hadn’t said.

Connor almost thanked the universe when Jacob poked his head in.

“Guys, give us a couple of minutes,” he said. “We’ll be right back.”

And he disappeared again, closing the door behind him.

Shit.

Connor’s heart took off immediately, pounding so hard he was briefly afraid it might burst out of his chest. The air felt heavier, harder to breathe. He wasn’t ready to be alone with Hudson yet. Not like this. Not in that small space, with Shane and Ilya’s script between them as a constant reminder of everything they’d have to face together.

Hudson finally sat down, controlled, and rested his forearms on the table. He didn’t look up. Connor hesitated for a few seconds before doing the same, dragging his chair with a scrape that sounded unnecessarily loud to his ears.

Silence closed in on them again.

Connor thought about saying something. Anything. A banal comment, an awkward joke, a badly worded apology. But no word felt safe. Every option seemed capable of opening a crack he didn’t know how to close.

Hudson turned a page of the script with excessive calm. The gesture was simple, but there was something tense in it, measured, as if every movement were being carefully controlled.

Connor swallowed.

He looked at Hudson again, properly this time. And that was when he noticed.

Hudson wasn’t wearing the bracelet.

The realization hit instantly and brutally. Something sharp lodged itself in his chest, like an invisible knife slipping in without warning. It wasn’t vague discomfort or diffuse unease—it was pain, clear and direct.

Hudson had misunderstood everything the afternoon before.

Because even though Connor had briefly considered not wearing the bracelet, the thought had lasted barely an instant. It had almost never fully formed. François would get used to it. He’d have to. That bracelet mattered. Connor hadn’t fought with his boyfriend just to then casually toss it aside like it meant nothing.

But he’d left it at Tyler’s place.

He hadn’t wanted to shower with it on, and when he rushed out to meet his friends, he’d forgotten it on the bathroom shelf. Then François showed up at his apartment and time collapsed into the two of them—the urgency of seeing each other, of using every minute. Connor never went to his sister’s place after that. He didn’t ask her to drop the bracelet off. He didn’t want to waste time on anyone who wasn’t François anymore. Still, he’d texted Tyler to send it over. With luck, in a couple of days the bracelet would be waiting in his mailbox.

But Hudson didn’t know that.

Hudson had only seen an absence.

“I didn’t stop wearing my bracelet,” Connor said.

The words came out before he could think better of it.

Hudson’s body flinched slightly—a minimal, almost imperceptible reaction, like he hadn’t expected Connor to actually speak. After all, since the room assignments in 1205, they hadn’t exchanged a single word that wasn’t strictly necessary.

“I told you I don’t care,” Hudson replied without looking up, increasingly obviously pretending to read. “Don’t waste time explaining. We’re working.”

“Technically, we’re not,” Connor said, sitting across from him before he could stop himself. “Why aren’t you wearing yours?”

He knew the question was stupid the moment it left his mouth.

What exactly had he expected? That Hudson would keep wearing the bracelet after thinking Connor had taken his off to please François?

Hudson finally looked up. He gave him an incredulous stare, one eyebrow lifting slightly. Then he let out a short, dry breath through his nose—an expression that made it painfully clear how ridiculous he found the situation.

“I mean—” Connor rushed, feeling his thoughts unravel. “Mine stayed at Tyler’s place.”

“Shut up.”

“I asked her to send it, so probably—”

“Connor.”

Hudson’s voice was so cold it stopped him dead. It wasn’t a shout. It didn’t need to be. The tone alone froze him in place, sentence half-finished, with the brutal certainty that he’d crossed an invisible line.

“Huddy…” Connor whispered.

He reached a hand across the table, clumsy and desperate, trying to take Hudson’s. He didn’t get the chance. Hudson pulled his hand back the second he sensed the movement, fast, like the contact would burn.

“I really don’t want to talk to you,” Hudson said at last.

Connor couldn’t hide the confusion on his face, because Hudson hesitated for just a second before continuing, like he’d almost reconsidered.

“I don’t want all this shit that’s happened between you and me to end up damaging something we built,” he added. “Something that gave us peace.”

“Then what?” Connor’s voice came out sharp, edged with accusation, and he didn’t bother hiding it. “Aren’t we trashing it right now?”

“I need time,” Hudson replied.

“For what?” Connor sounded angry, and no matter how hard he tried to lower his voice, he couldn’t.

Hudson exhaled hard, exasperated.

“I don’t know, Connor. To rethink my limits. What I said.”

“Then fuck the limits,” Connor shot back, the same edge in his voice.

Hudson let out a short, ironic laugh.

“Yeah, sure,” he said with a crooked smile. “And then what? Do I have to wait until you’re in a good mood to do whatever the fuck I want? Or do I have to ask you first what I’m allowed to do and what I’m not, and cross my fingers I don’t confuse you, depending on your goddamn mood?”

“This is ridiculous,” Connor said weakly.

“Yeah, it is.” Hudson snapped the script shut with a sharp smack. “Because I don’t want to walk on eggshells every time you fight with your boyfriend. Because I don’t want to stand by watching you spiral and wonder whether I’m allowed to say something—or if this time I have to shut the fuck up too.”

“I talked to you about one single fucking boundary, Huddy.”

Hudson raised an eyebrow, mocking.

“Huddy?” he repeated. “Now I’m Huddy?”

Connor blinked, thrown off. He genuinely didn’t understand.

“You’ve always been,” he said, frowning, confusion naked and almost childlike.

Hudson held his gaze for a second longer. Then he looked away.

“Forget it. It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Let’s just do this right.”

He didn’t need to clarify what he meant. Filming. Work. The thing they knew how to do even when everything else was falling apart.

Connor swallowed.

“I can’t forget it,” he said, barely a whisper. “It’s only been a day… and I already feel like I’m suffocating knowing you’re mad at me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t immediate. Hudson didn’t react right away. His fingers stayed resting on the closed script, unmoving, like he needed something physical to anchor himself.

When he spoke, he didn’t look up.

“I’m not mad,” he said. “I’m tired.”

The words landed heavier than Connor expected. Because anger could be argued with, fought, even repaired. Tiredness was something else. Something that accumulated. That asked for distance.

“Connor…” Hudson added, softer. “Right now I don’t have space for this. And if I keep talking, I’m going to say things I don’t want to say to you.”

Connor closed his eyes for a second, like he needed to steady himself.

“Then tell me when,” he asked. “Just that.”

Hudson took his time answering. When he did, it was with raw honesty.

“I don’t know.”

Connor dragged a hand over his face so roughly it burned.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

Hudson didn’t look at him, but he nodded, like the gesture didn’t deserve lingering.

“Really… I’m sorry.”

There was a brief silence. Then Hudson lifted his gaze and held Connor’s for several seconds. There was no hardness in his eyes—just something more worn, more fragile.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began. “That maybe if you’d gotten involved like that in a fight with my girlfriend, I wouldn’t have understood either—especially if it made things worse.”

He sighed, long and heavy.

“But still,” he continued, “I keep telling myself I’d never be capable of yelling at you. I’d never do something that could hurt you.”

Connor’s heart sank. Hudson looked down.

“What happened hurt me too. And honestly…” he exhaled sharply. “Yeah, I did think you’d taken the bracelet off. Why should I wear mine, then?”

He managed a sad, barely-there smile.

“It scares me that all this shit could hurt us. I’m afraid of lo—”

The words hung there, like he couldn’t bring himself to push them out.

“What?” Connor pressed, throat tight.

Hudson swallowed.

“I’m afraid of losing you, Connie.”

The confession came out low, bare. Hudson dropped his gaze again.

“I’m so fucking afraid of losing you that I think the best thing is to keep my distance. At least for a while.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Huddy,” Connor said.

He stood without realizing when he’d crossed the table. A second later he was kneeling beside him, level with the chair. The movement was instinctive, desperate.

“Isn’t that exactly what that is?” he added, voice breaking. “Isn’t that losing me?”

Hudson shook his head slowly.

“Until my head is clear. Until I really understand what our boundaries are. Until I’m sure I won’t cross another line… one that actually destroys us.” He looked at the floor. “I’m scared of crossing another one.”

Connor could feel Hudson’s fear with painful clarity. He understood it. He understood where it came from, why Hudson was saying what he was saying. And still, he had the unbearable sense that he wasn’t fully grasping everything hidden inside Hudson’s words.

Connor cupped Hudson’s face with his right hand. The gesture was slow, deliberate. Hudson closed his eyes almost instinctively, like the contact gave him back something he’d been losing for hours—maybe longer. Connor’s palm was warm against his skin, firm without pressure. His thumb moved gently along Hudson’s cheek, a small, intimate caress, loaded with everything they weren’t saying.

“We can do this,” Connor whispered. “Okay? Come on… it’s you and me.”

Hudson opened his eyes slowly and held his gaze. For a long second, he said nothing. Then a soft smile—faintly sweet, tired but real—formed on his lips.

“We’re such fucking dramatic assholes,” he said with a sigh that sounded like surrender. “Seriously. This should come with a medical warning.”

Connor let out a low, almost disbelieving laugh.

“Congratulations,” Connor continued, giving Hudson’s cheek a small, affectionate pinch. “We can cross it off the besties list. Our first and only big fight.”

Hudson shook his head, half-smiling, eyes still bright.

“We were missing throwing a glass at the wall to really complete the experience,” Connor added.

“Next time,” Hudson replied. “I don’t want to burn through all the milestones at once.”

“What the fuck do you mean next time?” Connor shot upright, hands on his hips. “Fuck off. I’m not fighting with you again.”

Hudson barely smiled. Connor knew him well enough to see that the calm was a conscious, almost physical effort.

“Don’t do it again,” Hudson said firmly. “I’m serious.”

“Never,” Connor promised without hesitation.

“And I’m serious about—”

He didn’t finish. Connor leaned forward and pressed Hudson’s lips together with two fingers, squishing his mouth into a ridiculous shape.

“Enough…”

Hudson pulled away subtly, ignoring the violent flip his heart did. Fuck. He hated feeling like this at the slightest touch from Connor. Hated how easy it was.

“No,” he protested. “I mean… I’m serious about us talking about boundaries. Don’t you think?”

Connor nodded, lifting his hands in surrender.

“Okay, okay.”

He paused, thoughtful—or pretending to be.

“For example: new rule number one,” he said. “Don’t kick your best friend out of your house like he’s a problematic raccoon.”

Hudson stared at him.

“You were acting like a problematic raccoon.”

“Objection,” Connor replied. “I was emotionally vulnerable.”

“And what do you think about yelling at your best friend?”

“I think it’s terrible communication practice,” Connor said immediately. “Zero stars. Would not recommend.”

“Alright,” Hudson interrupted, raising a hand. “Enough.”

Connor smiled, defeated, and nodded again. The atmosphere between them had shifted. Not fully repaired—but more breathable.

That was when the door opened and Jacob came back with the rest of the team. Voices filled the room, chairs scraped, someone set a coffee on the table. The change was obvious—even to those who didn’t know exactly what had happened.

Hudson felt it too.

And still, as he settled into his chair and reopened the script, something weighed on his chest with uncomfortable clarity. Because even though what had just happened looked like a reconciliation, he knew it wasn’t that simple.

They’d set important things aside. Too many.

And as long as François remained close, Hudson knew it with certainty: he would put up a barrier. Not out of lack of affection. Not out of anger. But out of fear.

And that barrier—necessary as it might be—was far more serious than any of them seemed willing to admit.

Chapter End Notes

Okay, here we go... what can I say? This chapter took me longer than I expected to write. It might feel a little slower than usual, but I needed to build the bridge to what’s coming next. I really hope it’s not boring to read, and that you genuinely enjoy it.
On a different note, I have a quick question: where are you reading from? I’d love to get a sense of the best time to post each chapter for you.
If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading. See you tomorrow (hopefully—work permitting).

Chapter 7: Boundaries

Chapter Notes

“Is there something you’re worried about?”

Hudson asked without looking at him. He was too busy fighting a ridiculous battle against the icy night wind. The lighter sparked once, twice. The flame appeared for barely a second before dying, defeated by the cold. Hudson cupped it with his hand, leaning in, stubborn.

Connor sighed, stepped forward, and without asking, took the cigarette from Hudson’s lips. He grabbed the lighter and, in one quick motion—so confident it almost felt rude—lit the flame. He lit the cigarette, took a drag, and tilted his head back as he exhaled. The smoke bloomed into an exaggerated white cloud against the freezing air.

“Thanks,” Hudson murmured, more out of reflex than politeness.

They’d finished the first-episode read sometime after 1:30 a.m. Now they were outside CRAVE’s offices, leaning near the entrance, waiting for the rest of the team to finish wrapping things up before heading off to sleep. The street was almost empty, lit by cold streetlamps and the reflections on the glass.

“What do you mean?” Connor asked, handing the cigarette back and settling it between Hudson’s lips.

Hudson inhaled urgently, like he needed the smoke to get his thoughts in order. He exhaled slowly before answering.

“The shoot,” he said. “I mean… is there anything in particular that worries you?”

Connor looked at him for just a second. That was enough.

They both understood at the same time.

They laughed.

“Is that really stupid?” Hudson asked, with almost childlike insecurity, like he’d just said something inappropriate.

“Not really,” Connor replied. “I mean… we were just starting to become good friends when the idea of kissing each other was, in some way…”

He searched for the word, brow furrowed.

“Weird?” Hudson supplied.

“Yeah,” Connor let out a short laugh. “Exactly. And I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about what it’ll be like to do it again,” he added, laughing once more. “But it should be fun, right?”

“It’s work,” Hudson said, shrugging.

The words came out easily. Too easily, considering what the idea of kissing Connor again—after more than a year—actually did to him. The thought was quick, fleeting, but it tightened his chest enough for him to notice. He blamed it on exhaustion. Or the cold. Or anything but the obvious.

“Yeah…” Connor said.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just… present.

Hudson took another drag, thoughtful, and then suddenly spoke:

“I hope your boyfriend doesn’t piss on you.”

Connor choked on a laugh.

“What?”

“It’s true,” Hudson insisted, completely serious. “You saw him this morning, didn’t you?”

Connor pressed his lips together and nodded, resigned.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said, taking the cigarette when Hudson handed it over. “I don’t really understand what he’s feeling, you know?” He inhaled. “I genuinely think I’ve never given him a reason to believe anything could happen between you and me.”

Hudson lowered his gaze for a moment.

He thought of Kiley. Of her distance. Of that strange silence he didn’t know how to name. Somehow—without logic, without proof—his mind linked it to Connor. Because if it wasn’t that… then what was it? He didn’t understand.

“Yeah, well,” Hudson began after a second. “You and I haven’t exactly been very considerate with them either.”

“With them?” Connor asked, genuinely confused.

Hudson hesitated just briefly. Connor knew about Kiley. Knew about that awkward conversation that had led to the impulsive decision to go to Paris together, like a vacation could make up for months of crossed schedules and long absences. So there was no point dodging it.

“Yeah, you know,” Hudson said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “Kiley also thinks we spend too much time together.”

Connor nodded slowly. He didn’t need further explanation. He understood perfectly.

“But Kiley hasn’t pissed on you,” Connor said, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Or at least not in front of me.”

Hudson let out a short laugh, more reflex than genuine amusement. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t want to dig into Kiley. He didn’t know whether he was imagining things—and if he wasn’t, he didn’t want to put Connor in an awkward position. He didn’t want Connor to start feeling insecure around Kiley the way Hudson now felt around François.

The image from that morning came back with uncomfortable clarity.

The entrance to 1205.

Choosing the bedrooms.

François hadn’t removed his arm from Connor’s shoulders at any point. Not in an exaggerated way, but consistently, like the contact was necessary to reaffirm something. And then that comment, delivered with overly measured calm, saying Hudson could take any of the single rooms, no problem, because Connor and he would share the main bedroom.

Hudson wasn’t sure if he was overreacting. Maybe it was just accumulated tension, recent discomfort coloring everything. But he couldn’t help feeling it as a clear, direct, almost territorial message. An unnecessary reminder that Connor had a boyfriend. That there was a hierarchy. That Hudson was outside that intimate space—one that wasn’t up for discussion.

He took a drag from the cigarette and let the smoke out slowly.

When they got to the apartment, the place was sunk in deep silence and near-total darkness. They went in carefully, measuring each step, like the floor itself might give them away, trying not to make the slightest sound that could wake François.

Connor walked ahead and, before separating, rested a hand on the back of Hudson’s head—a brief, automatic gesture, heavy with a familiarity that didn’t ask permission.

“Get some rest, Huddy.”

“You too, baby,” Hudson replied in the same low, almost mechanical tone.

They split there.

Hudson went into his room and closed the door softly behind him. Only then did he let out a long, heavy sigh, like he’d been holding it in for hours. He dropped onto the bed without even turning on the light and pulled his phone from his pocket.

He opened the chat with Kiley more out of stubbornness than hope.

Empty.

Nothing new. No message. No question. Nothing since he’d told her the meeting was starting. Not even a proper reply. Just that single heart, reacting to his last message like it was supposed to be enough.

Hudson let the phone fall onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling, with the uncomfortable feeling of waiting for something that never quite arrived. The silence of the room pressed into his chest, heavy, hard to ignore.

He thought—just for an instant, brief but insistent—that he needed to talk to Connor too.

Not the way they had talked before. Not from exhaustion, not from that fragile truce. It had to be a real conversation. Clear. The kind you don’t dodge. The very idea of a reconciliation built without saying the essentials, without naming what hurt, without putting order to what had come undone, felt dangerous to him. Ignoring it now could end up breaking something later. Something they might not be able to fix.

He’d do it later, he told himself.
When there was time.
When things were calmer.

He’d do it later, he repeated, clinging to that promise like a lifeline. When he felt certain that nothing bad would happen between them.

Later.

He closed his eyes.

***

The first scenes they shot didn’t involve them together. In fact, for most of the day Hudson and Connor would be working separately. Jacob wanted to make sure everything involving François was filmed first, before his trip to Montreal, and that required reorganizing the schedule with razor-sharp precision. Once that block was done, the plan was to return to the method that had worked so well during the first season: shooting by location, grouping scenes together, and preserving an emotional continuity that wouldn’t get diluted by unnecessary jumps.

The night before, Hudson had suggested something different—reading the scripts following the actual shooting order. Not because they didn’t know the story—they’d read it in full a long time ago—but because it felt easier to hit the right tone if the progression mirrored the shoot. Jacob had shut it down without hesitation.

For him, the full reread was non-negotiable.

It didn’t matter if that day they were shooting a scene they hadn’t reread out loud yet. What mattered was that everyone had the complete arc fresh in their minds: where the characters came from, what they’d lost, what they were about to break—or hold onto. Jacob didn’t direct isolated scenes; he directed emotional trajectories.

That didn’t mean improvisation. Before every take, Jacob quoted the script with precision, reminding them of the exact emotional state Shane or Ilya needed to be in. What had happened before. What they still didn’t know. What emotion couldn’t surface yet. It was constant fine-tuning, almost invisible from the outside.

Hudson appreciated it more than he ever said out loud.

Working separately gave him space. Time to settle in, to find the rhythm without having to deal with Connor’s constant physical proximity on camera. Connor seemed to appreciate it too. They functioned well like that—professional, focused, efficient.

Jacob was discussing the possibility of bringing Robbie G. K. in briefly for a scene. It wasn’t a small decision. Jacob didn’t like improvising, and involving Robbie meant moving several pieces at once: flights, accommodation, transportation, schedule availability. None of that got sorted on the fly.

Still, the idea had come up the day before and had stuck.

Adding a final scene of Scott and Kip participating in the Hollanov hockey camps. It wasn’t just a cute cameo—it made narrative sense. It closed an arc. Expanded the world. Connected stories the audience already felt close to.

So now the possibility was on the table.

Jacob paced back and forth with a tablet in hand, reviewing dates, mentally crossing things out and rewriting the calendar. Two options were being considered: squeezing the scene into the last day of shooting in Toronto, tightening the schedule even more, or saving it for later filming, when both actors could align more easily.

No decision yet. Just calculations, pending calls, and that constant tension between what was ideal and what was actually possible.

Hudson knew he wouldn’t have a scene for a couple of hours, so he headed for the break room. It wasn’t really a room—more like an improvised trailer the production used so actors could sit, stretch, close their eyes for a few minutes when the shooting pace allowed it.

Connor was filming at that moment. The set buzzed with activity, and no one seemed to have a spare second for casual conversation. Hudson didn’t have the energy to force one anyway. All he wanted was to sit down, slow things down. Maybe text Kiley. Or at least decide whether it was worth it.

He opened the door.

François was inside.

And he wasn’t alone.

Sophie was sitting across from him, leaning back in one of the folding chairs. Her face looked more serious than usual, and when she turned her head, her brow remained furrowed, like the conversation had stalled in the middle of something uncomfortable. François, beside her, was staring at the floor, hands clasped together, shoulders tense.

Hudson stopped for just a second. Long enough to take it in. Long enough to understand he’d walked in on something that wasn’t light or casual.

Then he smiled.

Not a wide or carefree smile—but the one he used as a shield. The one that let him step in without asking questions, without adding more weight to the room.

“Hey, bitch!” he greeted Sophie directly. “Didn’t know you’d already made it here.”

Sophie’s expression changed instantly, lighting up.

“Look at you!” she exclaimed, standing up.

Hudson stepped forward and hugged her tightly. Sophie was one of the few who hadn’t traveled with the rest of the team; she’d been in Windsor while everyone else went to Toronto. She was staying at Ella Purnell’s place, who’d moved there the year before. Hudson deliberately ignored François during the hug, as if he weren’t in the room at all.

François let out a barely audible sigh. He lowered his gaze, then looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the interruption.

Sophie pulled back and gave Hudson a couple of playful punches on the arms.

“You’ve gotten strong, huh?”

Hudson shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance, a mix of fake modesty and theatrical arrogance.

“Pure natural talent,” he joked.

François cleared his throat.

“We’ll talk later,” he said to Sophie.

She looked at him for just a second—long enough for Hudson to notice something in her expression he couldn’t quite interpret.

Hudson pointed his thumb toward the door.

“Oh—uh, I can leave, if you want.”

Suddenly he felt out of place. Like he’d interrupted something he wasn’t meant to see.

“No,” François cut in, faster than necessary. “It’s fine.”

Sophie glanced at François again, and this time Hudson would’ve sworn François was actually grateful for the interruption. Like Hudson had been a convenient exit.

François grabbed his jacket.

“I’ll be back.”

And he left, closing the door behind him.

Hudson watched Sophie for a few seconds longer, enough to sense that something still didn’t quite add up. Even so, he didn’t ask. He and Sophie had become close during the first season—but not confidants. They shared jokes, on-set chemistry, long waiting afternoons—not deep conversations. In fact, Sophie had always been much closer to François than to him.

So he didn’t push.

Hudson dropped into one of the nearby seats, sprawling with studied ease, like he hadn’t just walked in on a tense moment. He draped an arm over the backrest and stretched his legs out, ready to slip back into the lighter version of conversation he knew how to handle best.

“So,” he said, tilting his head. “When did Toronto officially become your new home?”

Sophie raised an eyebrow, and for the first time since he’d walked in, the seriousness in her face began to loosen.

***

When Connor got back to 1205, the sun was just starting to slip behind the buildings. The sky still held some light, but it was no longer day. He entered quietly, dropped his keys on the counter, and went straight to the bathroom. He took a quick shower—almost automatic—like his body knew exactly what to do when there was no energy left to think.

Minutes later, he collapsed onto the bed, flat on his back, exhausted.

Hudson had stayed on set; he still had a scene left to shoot. François, meanwhile, had gone straight to CRAVE’s offices. So Connor was alone. He rolled onto the mattress and picked up his phone.

The notifications were still there. Comments, mentions, tags. The airport photos with François were still making noise. Connor didn’t have the headspace for that. Not today. So he ignored them and just scrolled through his Instagram feed without looking for anything in particular.

Sometimes he liked to search his own name online. Not out of ego, he told himself, but curiosity. But ever since Heated Rivalry blew up, his algorithm seemed incapable of showing him anything else. Clips. Edits. Interviews. Theories.

He stopped on a video of him and Hudson.

He smiled without realizing it.

It was an old interview. He remembered that day well—they’d laughed a lot, time had flown by, and Connor had walked away feeling like he’d genuinely enjoyed it. But this wasn’t the full clip. Someone had edited it. Cut it down. Zoomed in. Slowed specific moments.

Lingering looks. Small smiles. Minimal gestures turned into something huge.

Connor sat up in bed and watched more closely.

Shit.

For the first time, he thought that if François saw this, he might actually understand where the discomfort came from. Why his boyfriend got so defensive whenever Hudson was involved. From the outside, the edit made everything look charged. Intentional. Like something more was there.

But Connor hadn’t felt it that way. To him, it had always been natural. He and Hudson had always moved like that—close, comfortable, without double meanings. There were no second intentions behind every touch or look.

At least, that’s what he’d believed.

He watched the video again.

This time, with different eyes.

He paused on one moment in particular. Hudson looking at him. Not acting. Not exaggerating. Just looking at him. Connor frowned, paying closer attention. Had his eyes always shone like that? Or was it the filter? The editing?

And then he noticed something else.

Connor tended to get shy when Hudson held his gaze for too long. It was subtle—almost imperceptible if you weren’t paying attention. He’d look away. Smile crookedly. Sometimes blush. Sometimes avert his eyes like he’d said something inappropriate without opening his mouth.

Connor swallowed.

He set the phone down on the bed and dragged a hand over his face, exhausted. Then he let himself fall back again, staring up at the ceiling, which stared back at him—indifferent.

Connor woke up abruptly, not remembering when he’d fallen asleep. For a second, he didn’t know where he was—until a raised voice from the living room cut through the fog. The sharp sound of a door slamming shut finished orienting him.

Hudson.

Connor frowned immediately. Hudson wasn’t like that. Hudson was careful to a fault—someone who closed doors with a hand guiding the movement so they wouldn’t make noise, who apologized if he brushed against someone by accident. He didn’t slam doors. Not when he was tired. Not when he was rushed. If a door had closed like that, something was wrong.

The apartment was completely dark. Connor blindly searched for his phone on the bed, feeling through the sheets until he found it. The screen lit up and showed the time: 10:30 p.m.

François hadn’t come back yet.

Before he could fully process it, Hudson’s voice came again—clearer this time.

“No,” he was saying, voice raised, tight. “I’m not understanding you, Kiley.”

Connor’s stomach clenched.

Fuck.

His first instinct was to make some noise—to cough, shuffle his feet, anything that would make it clear he was there. He didn’t want to be that guy. He didn’t want to overhear someone else’s argument, especially not a private conversation between Hudson and his girlfriend.

But he didn’t get the chance.

“No, this isn’t the first time,” Hudson continued. “So what’s the fucking problem now? Why now? I told you I didn’t choose this, and even if I had, I need you to explain what exactly is wrong with that.”

He wasn’t yelling. But his voice was loaded with a density of irritation so heavy Connor feared it might crack at any second.

Connor got out of bed and opened his bedroom door.

Hudson had already turned on the living room light. He was pacing back and forth with the phone pressed to his ear, back turned. He spun around sharply when he heard the door open. He lowered the phone almost immediately, eyes wide in surprise, mouth slightly open.

“Uh—”

That was all he managed.

He lifted the phone back to his ear.

“I’ll call you later,” he said quickly.

A few seconds of silence followed. Connor couldn’t hear Kiley’s voice, but he saw Hudson’s jaw tighten, saw him close his eyes and tilt his head back, biting down on his lower lip like he was swallowing something he didn’t want to say.

“I’ll call you later,” he repeated, this time not waiting for a response.

He hung up.

“Are you okay?” Connor asked carefully.

Hudson’s chest was rising and falling hard. His face was flushed, his eyes bright with contained anger. He looked genuinely furious. More than that—overwhelmed.

“Hey,” Connor added, taking a step toward him.

He reached for Hudson’s shoulders—an automatic, reflexive gesture. Hudson stepped back immediately.

Connor froze, thrown off. The rejection landed like a sharp sting in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Hudson said right away. “I didn’t know you were already here. I thought—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He exhaled hard and planted his hands on his hips. Then he let his head fall forward, like the movement might give him back some control, like he needed to ground himself before continuing.

“Do you want to talk?” Connor asked again, voice lower now, more careful.

“No, it’s just—” Hudson exhaled so forcefully Connor worried for a second he might get dizzy.

“You’re fighting with Kiley. I know,” Connor said.

This time, when he rested a hand on Hudson’s shoulder, Hudson didn’t pull away. Instead, he looked up—and for a brief moment, all the hardness drained from his face. A faint pout—almost involuntary—formed on his lips, that expression Connor knew far too well, the one that always appeared when Hudson was exhausted and emotionally flooded.

“You were asleep, right?” Hudson asked, lifting a finger to Connor’s brow, gently pressing the faint puffiness beneath his eyes.

“Doesn’t matter,” Connor replied without thinking. “Do you really not want to talk?”

Hudson shook his head slowly.

Connor nodded, accepting it without pushing further. He stepped forward and pulled him into a firm, unhurried hug. Hudson melted into it immediately, resting his forehead against Connor’s shoulder—but he didn’t let it last. The break came almost too fast, like something had suddenly flipped in his head. He stepped back carefully, eyes scanning the room automatically, searching for something—or someone—who wasn’t there.

“He’s not here,” Connor said, anticipating it, knowing exactly who he was looking for.

“Mmm,” Hudson murmured.

He lowered his gaze for a second, just long enough to pull himself together, then looked back up with a smile that didn’t quite hold.

“I think we need to talk,” he said. “Don’t you?”

Connor felt a sharp pull in his stomach.

He nodded, though confusion showed plainly on his face. Not because he didn’t understand what Hudson meant—but because part of him had wanted to believe this conversation wouldn’t come. That what had happened at Hudson’s place had been enough. That the implicit forgiveness had been sufficient.

It was absurd—he knew that. He’d been the one to bring up boundaries first. And still, the fear was there. Because since that reconciliation, something between them felt different. Not broken—but shifted. Like, without saying it out loud, they were both drawing a new line.

Connor almost laughed at the thought.

It had been one fucking day. Just one.

Hudson walked over to the couch by the window and sat down. City light filtered through the glass, casting soft shadows across his face. He nodded toward the armchair across from him, signaling for Connor to sit.

Connor did.

He sat without moving any closer than necessary, painfully aware that both of them seemed to be avoiding being too close—and alone—while vulnerable.

Distance was safer.

Connor leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, breathing deep. Hudson mirrored the posture but avoided looking at him at first.

“I think I’ve hurt Kiley,” Hudson said.

His gaze was fixed on the coffee table. He hadn’t taken his jacket off yet; both hands were still buried in his pockets, like he needed something solid to keep from falling apart. The sentence came out calm—but heavy, like he’d repeated it too many times in his head before daring to say it out loud. “And I’ve spent hours… almost two days, asking myself what I did wrong.”

Connor watched him without interrupting. The tip of Hudson’s nose was red from the cold, a small detail that made him look even sadder. His eyes kept darting, landing on anything but Connor.

“You know that…” Hudson swallowed. “You know she’s really important to me.”

“I know,” Connor replied softly.

His heart was pounding—too hard for a conversation that supposedly wasn’t about him. He didn’t understand why he was so tense, but he was.

“Kiley’s been with me for years,” Hudson went on. “She grew up with me. She held me together even when I didn’t have—when I had nothing.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully, like naming it wrong might break something.

“She’s never been demanding. She’s never asked for more than I could give,” he sighed. “Never.”

He sank back into the couch, defeated by the weight of it all, like saying it out loud had drained whatever energy he had left.

“Huddy,” Connor said gently. “Breathe, okay? One thing at a time. I’m here. I’m listening. You don’t have to rush.”

Hudson nodded, ran his tongue over dry lips.

“I never thought our friendship could hurt other people.”

The sentence landed like a blunt hit.

Connor felt it full force, like he’d been shoved without warning.

“First it was François,” Hudson continued. “And I was a selfish, unempathetic asshole—because even though I understood him… I understood too late. After I convinced myself he was right.”

He looked up for the first time and met Connor’s eyes directly. There was something tight there, a mix of guilt and regret so clear Connor felt a knot form in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Hudson said. “I can only now understand how you felt a few days ago, when your boyfriend was pressuring you about us.”

“No—” Connor frowned. “I don’t think I’m following.”

Hudson looked back at the table.

“It’s not just that we spend a lot of time together,” he said. “It’s that you and I are too embedded in each other’s lives. We barely exist in spaces where the other isn’t present.”

Connor blinked, completely thrown.

“So what?” he asked. “What does that mean? Are you… breaking up with me?”

The question came out before he could stop it.

Hudson let out a short breath through his nose—there was no humor in it.

“How would we even break up?”

They weren’t talking about the same ending. Hudson was naming something without a formal label. Connor was talking about the friendship.

“Of course you can,” Connor shot back, shrugging. “Friendships end too.”

Hudson nodded.

“Is that a yes?” Connor raised his eyebrows, anxiety rushing through him. “Because I swear to God I’m about to lose my fucking mind.”

Hudson pressed his lips together.

“I told you earlier I didn’t want to talk,” he said. “Because I knew I’d say things I didn’t want to say.”

Connor bit the inside of his cheek, holding back.

“Then what is it?” he asked finally. “Tell me clearly.”

Hudson closed his eyes for a second before opening them again.

“Kiley—”

“Is she mad at you because of me?” Connor interrupted.

Hudson shook his head immediately, almost tired.

“You said it yourself,” he replied. “You’re not responsible for what other people feel. Technically, she’s mad at me. Not you.”

Connor frowned.

“For being my friend?”

“No, Connor,” Hudson’s voice tightened—part desperation, part frustration. “It’s not that. You’re more involved in my life than my girlfriend feels she’s been since we met.”

There.

That was it.

Connor went quiet for a second, processing.

“Wow,” he finally said, letting out an incredulous laugh. “This is a fucking circus. Same show, different clown.”

Hudson didn’t smile.

“But seriously,” Hudson continued. “Do you think our friendship is… normal?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Connor asked, defensive.

Hudson tipped his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. Connor knew the gesture well—he was losing patience.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” Hudson said quietly. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“No, I don’t,” Connor snapped, more worked up than he intended. “I need you to be clear, because my head is so full of shit right now I’m not understanding anything.”

Hudson dropped his head forward and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Don’t you think we’ve developed some kind of emotional dependency on each other?”

The words hit Connor square in the chest.

A blunt impact.

For a split second, he thought of François. Of something he’d once said in passing—or maybe Connor was misremembering. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was the uncomfortable pressure rising in his throat.

“No…” he said—but even he didn’t fully believe it.

Hudson smiled without humor, irritated.

“Our emotional well-being depends on each other,” he listed, no filter now. “We get anxious if we don’t get messages. It affects us when we don’t have each other’s attention or closeness. We interpret distance as rejection. Our social lives revolve too much around one another.”

He paused briefly—but not to soften the blow.

“I forgave you way too easily for yelling at me. You forgave me way too easily for getting involved in your relationship. Christ, Connor—” his voice cracked slightly. “We fought, and the next day you were a mess, with a migraine, throwing up on a plane.”

Hudson shook his head.

“Does that sound healthy to you?” he asked. “For you? For me?”

Connor opened his mouth to answer—but nothing came out.

“If you’re trying to suggest we take some time apart, fuck off. I’m not accepting that,” Connor said through clenched teeth. “Don’t come at me with this now, Hudson.”

Hudson snapped his head up. His eyes were lit—not with sadness, but with pure, burning anger.

“Can you stop using my fucking name like that every time you get pissed?”

Connor blinked, genuinely confused.

“Oh, sorry,” he replied with exaggerated drama. “What should I call you then? Mildred? You don’t even have a middle name—what the hell are you talking about?”

Hudson clenched his jaw. His voice dropped to almost a whisper, but it didn’t lose any force.

“Huddy.”

And then Connor understood.

The air got stuck in his chest.

“I’m not going to accept being pushed away from you, Huddy,” Connor said—no joke, no irony. “No.”

He didn’t say anything else about the realization, but something clicked hard in his head. The earlier conversation came back with uncomfortable clarity: Now I’m Huddy? That night. When he’d yelled at him. When he’d unknowingly used Hudson’s name as a way to create distance.

Hudson sighed, exhausted. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. He dragged them down his face so roughly Connor felt a spike of alarm, afraid he might actually hurt himself.

“See?” Hudson said without lifting his head. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

He raised his face just enough to look at him.

“And if this is something I’m the only one who’s developed… if this is something that’s actually only affecting me,” he swallowed, “I need you to understand that. I need—how can it affect me that you call me by my name instead of a term of endearment?” Hudson shook his head more at himself than at Connor, like his own reaction felt absurd. “That’s why I’m serious. I need—”

“Huddy,” Connor cut in, voice low, firm. Not a plea. A warning.

Hudson closed his eyes.

“I can’t lose you,” he said at last, voice broken, painfully honest. “But I can’t lose her either.”

The silence that followed wasn’t abrupt.

It was devastating.

“So all of this is about Kiley?” Connor said—and for the first time since the conversation began, he felt real anger surge. “This isn’t about the health of our friendship? About figuring out how to take care of each other? It’s just about putting boundaries in place so you don’t lose your girlfriend?”

Hudson didn’t look away.

“And didn’t you put boundaries in place first so you wouldn’t lose your boyfriend?”

The question hit Connor like a slow slap.

He let out a dry, incredulous laugh—more tired than amused.

“Oh,” he said. “I get it now. This is a bad fucking joke.”

He ran a hand through his hair and started counting on his fingers, even though his face was completely wrecked.

“So what are you suggesting?” he asked. “Time? Space?” He lifted another finger. “Say it. Look at me and say it.”

Hudson lowered his gaze for just a moment before answering.

“I don’t know, Connor…” he sighed. “Maybe not spending so much time together. Maybe seeing other people more. Giving more time to our partners. Less physical contact…”

He shrugged, visibly uncomfortable with his own words.

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “I don’t want to fight with you. I want us to understand each other and make this work.”

“I’m not fighting,” Connor said—though his voice trembled enough to betray him.

Hudson looked at him for several seconds. Connor held his gaze, almost waiting for him to snap, to explode, to finally say something that would make everything easier to understand.

It didn’t happen.

Connor took a deep breath.

“Okay,” he said at last.

Hudson’s reaction was immediate and subtle at the same time: his eyes darkened with something close to sadness, and a small, trembling smile appeared on his lips. Connor understood instantly. This wasn’t what Hudson wanted. It was what he felt he needed.

“We can try,” Connor continued. “We can set those intentions and…” he swallowed, “…hope we’re okay.”

“Thank you,” Hudson whispered.

“Don’t mention it,” Connor replied, clasping his hands together. “Anything else?”

Hudson seemed to consider the question carefully. Then he shook his head slowly.

“Look at me,” Connor asked.

Hudson shook his head again, eyes fixed on the table.

“Huddy,” Connor insisted, lowering his voice. “Look at me or I’ll walk over to that couch.”

Hudson lifted his head immediately.

And something in Connor’s expression made him tremble.

It was only then that Connor realized what he’d just done. He’d used closeness as a weapon. The realization came with uncomfortable, almost brutal clarity. They’d both deliberately avoided revisiting that moment at Hudson’s place. They hadn’t named it. Hadn’t touched it, not even with words. Connor had forced himself not to think about it.

Until now.

I’ll walk over to that couch hadn’t been an empty threat. It had been completely intentional. That night, Connor had been broken, vulnerable after fighting with François, and Hudson had held him without hesitation. Now Connor was offering the exact same thing back: Look at me, or I’ll come to you, hold you, and I don’t know what happens next.

“What…?” Hudson’s voice came out almost like a plea.

“Don’t shut me out,” Connor said plainly. “I’d rather you tell me you need space, that we won’t talk for a few days—whatever. But don’t push me away like this. Not completely.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“I’ll give you space. I’ll let you breathe, fix things with Kiley. But don’t cut me out of your life.”

Hudson shook his head slowly, like the idea itself hurt.

“I won’t,” he promised.

In some way, he knew he was contradicting everything they’d just agreed to. But he also knew it wasn’t a lie. Not right now. Not like this.

“I love you,” Connor said softly, honestly. “I really love you. And I want you in my life.”

Hudson swallowed.

“I love you too,” he replied. “Thank you for understanding.”

He stood up, and the movement shifted the air between them—uncomfortable now, tense in a different way. Hudson ran a hand down his pants, nervously searching for his phone.

“I, uh…” he murmured. “I need to go.” He gestured toward his bedroom. “I need to call Kiley.”

Connor nodded once—a short gesture that meant go. He didn’t stop him. He didn’t say anything else.

Hudson walked away.

Connor was left alone on the couch and buried his face in his hands. He let out a long, exhausted sigh, like only then did the full weight of everything finally crash down on him.

When had everything started going to shit?

He tried to convince himself it wasn’t the end of the world. That it was just boundaries. Adjustments. Necessary things. He repeated to himself—almost stubbornly—that everything would be fine. That it had to be.

He didn’t know whether Hudson actually called Kiley or not, because the apartment door opened.

Connor lifted his head just in time to see François walk in.

“I thought you were asleep,” François said as he kicked off his shoes by the door.

Connor knew—even before looking at him—that his boyfriend had noticed something. It was confirmed when François frowned upon seeing him standing there in the living room, shoulders tense, his expression clearly shaken by something that had nothing to do with being tired.

Connor didn’t say anything. He walked over to him and, as soon as he was close enough, wrapped his arms around François’s waist and pressed his face against his chest. The gesture was automatic, almost childlike in its need. François took a couple of seconds to react, surprised, but then he hugged him back, firm and grounding, and pressed his lips to Connor’s curls.

“Are you okay?” he asked as he pulled back just enough to look at him, lifting Connor’s chin with two fingers.

Connor managed a small smile and nodded. It wasn’t exactly a lie—but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

For a moment, he felt lost.

There were so many things stuck in his throat it almost hurt to breathe. He wanted to talk. Wanted to say I just had a conversation that wrecked me, I don’t know if I did the right thing, I’m scared. But he understood, with bitter clarity, that he couldn’t. Not with François. Not without turning everything into something heavier, more complicated, more unfair.

And that pissed him off a little.

Because shouldn’t his boyfriend be the person he could go to in a moment like this?

He couldn’t turn to Hudson to vent about a conversation he’d had with Hudson. That was absurd.

And he couldn’t do it with François either, because inevitably it would all become more tangled.

“I’m tired,” he said finally. “Can we sleep?”

François studied him for a few seconds, assessing.

“Do you really want to sleep?” he asked, brushing his lips slowly, deliberately along Connor’s neck.

Connor closed his eyes for a second—but it wasn’t desire he felt. Not this time.

“We’re not alone,” he said, the tone coming out sharper than he’d intended.

“And?” François replied, sliding a firm hand over Connor’s ass and pulling him a little closer. “I’m leaving soon,” he murmured against his lips. “We won’t have time for ourselves in weeks.”

Connor rested his forehead against François’s and took a deep breath.

He wasn’t in the mood to fuck.

Not that night.

Not with Hudson in the other room.

Not with everything still weighing so heavily on his chest.

And even though he didn’t say it out loud, François felt it. Because he loosened his grip just slightly—enough not to push him.

“I’m sorry,” Connor whispered.

François didn’t answer with words. Instead, he wrapped his arms around him again, holding him close with a firm, deliberate gesture, as if to make it clear there was nothing to apologize for. That saying no was okay. That it was fine.

Hudson’s bedroom door opened.

Connor felt the immediate urge to pull away, to step back—but François didn’t let him. He held him in place with a steadiness that caught Connor off guard. Connor’s body went tense instantly, frozen, trapped in that posture.

And then Hudson’s earlier words came back to him with uncomfortable clarity: like a dog pissing on his territory. It wasn’t a fair image. Not entirely. But it wasn’t entirely false either.

Connor didn’t have the energy to argue with it. Not that night.

“Good night,” Hudson said.

His voice was polite. Neutral.

“Good night,” François replied, not loosening the embrace.

Connor didn’t see Hudson’s face. He just heard him cross the room, unhurried footsteps, heading toward the kitchen. The dull sound of the fridge opening. He was getting water, apparently—as if he needed a mundane gesture to anchor himself.

Connor pressed his hand briefly, firmly against François’s back. This time, François understood. He loosened his arms and released him.

Connor took his boyfriend’s hand and guided him toward the bedroom. François went in first, long legs moving ahead, pulling Connor along without even realizing it, as if assuming Connor would follow.

Before stepping through the door, Connor looked back.

Hudson was standing in the kitchen, a bottle of water in his hand. He wasn’t drinking.

He was just watching him.

Hudson’s eyes were shining.

Chapter End Notes

So, welcome to the drama, now and forever.

Alright, I don’t have much else to say—except that I really hope you’re not hating me right now for the HudCon suffering. I tried to post earlier, taking into account the time zone of where most of you are (or at least where I think most of you are), but work didn’t allow it. Tomorrow I’ll probably be updating a bit late as well. It’s Saturday, but I have a few things to take care of in the morning, so I won’t be able to write until the afternoon. I might not make it in time to update tomorrow after all—I honestly don’t know yet 🥲

I do want to clarify something important ☝🏻 I’m not an expert on how companies, agencies, managers, or brands work. I don’t really know how the production side of a TV show functions either. So please don’t take everything too literally. Some technical details might not fully align with reality, but this is a fanfic—everything here is imagination. Some things are written the way they are simply because that’s how they work best for the story. I hope that doesn’t take away from your reading experience.
And if you’re smiling and made it this far—thank you for reading. I hope I’ll see you again tomorrow 💜

Chapter 8: What the Body Knew

Chapter Notes

This chapter is dedicated to Anna980 💛
Thank you so much for the suggestion about Kiley’s POV—I’d been trying to figure out the best way to explain what was going on with her.

And to everyone else, sorry in advance for any typos 🙈 I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Kiley wakes up alone that morning. Hudson isn’t there—and he won’t be for at least three months. Then he’ll come back, settle in for a couple of months, and then leave… again.

For a while, she thought she could get used to it. She really did—the first time it happened. Now, though, she isn’t sure she can do it again. And it’s not because she doesn’t love him, or because she’s afraid of being alone, or because she doesn’t understand her boyfriend’s job. It’s just that this time, something feels different.

Kiley has never been the jealous type. She’s never had a reason to be. She built a solid relationship with Hudson—one based on trust. She trusts him. She trusted him. Yes. Past tense.

The day before, she barely replied to his messages. Not because she didn’t want to talk to him, but because she was afraid. Afraid of saying something she wasn’t ready to stand behind. Afraid of facing a truth she’d been pushing down for days—maybe months. It feels like life is prying something out of her hands, and no matter how tightly she curls her fingers, it keeps slipping through like water.

It hasn’t been a year. Not even two.

They’ve been together since high school. Years of growing at the same pace, building routines, plans, comfortable silences. Choosing each other over everything else.

Maybe—she thinks—they’ve grown so used to each other that they’ve just kept moving forward without ever stopping to really look. If she said she was in love with Hudson the same way she was as a teenager, she’d be lying. But isn’t that what love is, after all? Evolving. Changing shape. Maturing. Love changes depending on the stage of your life.

She loves him. And still, her chest tightens at the thought that maybe it isn’t enough anymore. That their love has reached such a stable, deep point that it feels more like a life partnership than a shared impulse.

That morning, she doesn’t get a message from Hudson until after eleven. Filming for the second season has already started. He’ll be in Toronto for at least two weeks before moving again.

She doesn’t want to talk to him. Not yet. Because she doesn’t know how to lie to him. Hudson knows her too well—he’ll notice immediately that something is wrong, even though she knows he already does. But Kiley isn’t ready to say it out loud.

What would she even say?

And how?

Ironically, she’s always been one of the biggest supporters of his friendship with Connor.

Connor.

The name sends a sharp jab through her chest.

Connor is sweet, charismatic, kind. And attractive—too attractive. The only flaw Kiley can find in him—if it even counts—is that he’s too close to her boyfriend.

The thought makes her let out a short, sad laugh. Her eyes sting, reminding her that she fell asleep crying the night before, too.

She’s in her studio when Hudson’s message comes in. She opens it immediately, just like she has with all the others, even though she still doesn’t know if she’ll reply.

It’s a photo.

“Sophie says hi,” the caption reads.

Hudson is stretched out on a couch, probably in some break area on set. Sophie Nélisse is leaning over him, their faces pressed close together, cheeks squished into an exaggerated expression that warps their smiles.

Kiley smiles without thinking. She likes Sophie. She’s always wished Sophie were closer to Hudson.

The smile fades slowly as the thought takes shape. Her chest aches.

She feels awful for thinking it, but she can’t help it: she wants Hudson to be friends with Sophie. Just not with Connor.

She locks her phone and sets it face down on the table in front of her. Then she rests her arms on the surface and drops her head between them. The exhaustion hits her all at once—heavy, dense—as if she’s been holding herself together for days without realizing it.

Kiley isn’t stupid. After so many years with Hudson, she knows him too well. She knows how he relates to his friends, understands his boundaries, recognizes his gestures. She knows how far he goes with each person.

And she also knows that none of those rules apply to Connor.

Connor is different.

For a long time, she tells herself that it makes sense. Hudson has never known anyone like him—so different and yet so similar. They share humor, references, comfortable silences. Connor is someone Hudson can be himself with, without explaining, without guarding himself. They’re also in the same industry. They rose to recognition around the same time. They learned how to navigate that world together. They lived things that, inevitably, bound them.

She can understand that. But she also knows it isn’t just that.

She’s watched the show. Every episode. Every interview. Every photo. Every video. She’s seen how Hudson changes around Connor. The way he looks at him, like something lights up behind his eyes. Like Connor is the center and Hudson orbits around him without even noticing. Sometimes Hudson forgets whether he told her something or told Connor. They share clothes. They can sleep together, holding each other, without it seeming strange.

And still, Kiley has always known that Connor holds a different place than everyone else.

It never bothered her.

On the contrary—for a long time, she was grateful Connor existed in Hudson’s life. Grateful that her boyfriend didn’t have to go through that absurd world alone, that constant pressure, that brutal life change. Grateful he had someone who understood him without explanations, someone who was there when she couldn’t be.

Fuck, she even gave them a matching tattoo herself.

And the bracelet… it never bothered her. She never questioned it. She saw it as something symbolic, almost sweet—a way of holding on in the middle of chaos.

Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

Maybe—and the thought makes her more uncomfortable than she wants to admit—she’s been deeply hypocritical. Maybe she buried those discomforts deep inside, where they wouldn’t hurt, where they wouldn’t demand to be named. Maybe she chose not to look too closely, because doing so would mean facing something she didn’t want to confront.

Because Kiley has never felt insecure about Connor. Never. Not until a couple of nights ago. And maybe, if that hadn’t happened, those feelings would still be hidden from her.

Her eyes burn again, tears threatening. She swallows and forces herself to pull it together when she’s told her new client has arrived. She takes a deep breath and straightens in her chair.

She picks up her phone, and this time she doesn’t hesitate. She texts Hudson.

Could you call me when you’re home?

She sends the message and places the phone face down on the table. Whatever this is, she can’t keep avoiding the conversation.

Kiley doesn’t hear back from Hudson until a little after 18:35 in Vancouver. That means it’s already 21:35 in Toronto.

Just finished filming. Want me to call you in an hour?

Kiley replies almost immediately.

Call me.

She hesitates for barely a second before adding a heart. She doesn’t want to sound distant. She doesn’t want him to notice—yet—the tension tightening her chest.

Hudson calls her at exactly 22:05.

“Babe,” he says the moment she picks up.

And instantly, something inside her loosens. Just hearing Hudson’s voice has that familiar, almost automatic effect. She misses him. She really misses him—far more than she’d been willing to admit throughout the day.

So much so that, for a moment, she wants to put off the uncomfortable conversation. Pretend everything is normal a little longer. Stretch that safe space they’ve always shared.

In any other context, Kiley knows she wouldn’t be having this conversation over the phone. This is the kind of thing you talk through face to face, sitting across from each other, with time. But she can’t keep ignoring it either. She doesn’t want her silence to start weighing on Hudson while he’s working, while he needs to stay focused.

So she takes a deep breath and, in the same loving tone as always, asks him to tell her everything. The flight. The filming. The set. Who’s arrived, who hasn’t. What the vibe is like.

Hudson, as always, holds nothing back.

He talks about the accumulated exhaustion, the long scenes, the intensity of the first day. About Toronto, the cold, the rhythm already settling in. About Sophie. About small details that, at another time, would’ve made her smile without thinking.

Kiley listens in silence, settling back against the chair, closing her eyes now and then to picture him. She lets him talk. Lets him fill the space.

Not yet. Not yet, she tells herself.

The words are stuck in her throat. It’s not just sadness—it’s that uncomfortable pressure that settles in your chest when something you’ve been avoiding starts pushing its way out. Her eyes sting even before she lets herself think about it. For a few seconds, she clings to the trivial conversation, the small details, like she can keep it afloat without touching bottom.

But then, like a cruelly precise joke from the universe, Hudson says something that completely throws her.

“I think I’m the first one to get back,” he says, his voice tired, distracted. “I’m heading up to the apartment now. I think Connor and François went to the CRAVE offices, so I’ll be alone for a bit.”

Kiley’s shoulders tense without her realizing it.

“So the three of you are staying together?” she asks, trying to sound casual, like she’s just following the thread of the story.

“Yeah, but only for a few days,” Hudson replies. “François has to travel to Montreal after that.”

For a fraction of a second, Kiley feels something sharp—an alert, brief and piercing.

“For a few days?” she repeats, more attentive now, as if something doesn’t quite add up—or maybe fits a little too perfectly.

“No,” Hudson clarifies almost immediately. “Actually, he’ll be staying in Montreal.”

The air seems to thicken.

“So…” Kiley says slowly, “…you and Connor will be alone in the apartment?”

The question doesn’t come out the way she intended. It carries a different weight, a gravity that gives her away. Too direct. Too loaded.

On the other end of the line, Hudson goes quiet. Not a brief or natural silence—an uncomfortable one, the kind that stretches because someone is choosing their words carefully.

“Uh…” he murmurs at last. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Another pause. Longer. More obvious. Kiley feels something close up inside her.

“I see,” she finally says.

Her voice is controlled, smooth, stripped of tone. So cold she barely recognizes it herself.

“Is something wrong?” Hudson asks, more alert now. “What’s going on?”

Kiley closes her eyes.

There it is.

The exact point she’s known they’d reach from the start.

“Do you always have to stay with him?” Kiley asks, making no effort to soften her tone. The irritation comes out raw, unfiltered.

“What?” Hudson sounds genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?”

And that’s the unfair part of it all. Hudson has always been transparent with her. They’ve talked about Connor more than once, and Kiley has always said the same thing: that it didn’t bother her, that she understood the friendship, that she even thought it was good for him. She’d meant it—or thought she had.

Because now, listening to herself, there’s no trace of that certainty left. Jealousy is rising up her throat like acid, impossible to swallow.

“Yeah, I mean…” she starts, tripping over her words. “Do you have some kind of shared exclusivity contract or something? Do you have to be together all the time? Don’t you have other castmates, other people?”

There’s a voice inside her screaming for her to stop. Telling her she’s crossing a line. But she can’t.

“I’m not following you, babe,” Hudson says, and now his voice really is different—lower, more careful, like he’s walking on glass. “I didn’t decide to stay with Connor. Jacob assigned the rooms. He’s here with me, yeah, but also with his boyfriend. And besides, Connor—”

Kiley squeezes her eyes shut and cuts him off before he can finish. Not because she doesn’t want to listen, but because she knows exactly where he’s going. And she can’t stand it.

“It’s like I suddenly stopped existing,” she says.

The words come out without raising her voice, but they’re heavy, dense, almost exhausted. Even as she says them, she knows how unfair they sound. Hudson hasn’t done anything deliberately to erase her. And yet, that’s exactly how it feels.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s like…” she continues, swallowing hard, “…like he’s more present in your life than I am.”

The silence that follows isn’t abrupt. It’s slow. Thick. As if they both need a second to accept what’s just been laid bare.

Kiley presses her forehead into the palm of her hand. She doesn’t want to accuse him. She doesn’t want to fight. But she can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.

“Kil… wait…” Hudson sounds a little desperate. “Connor—”

“Connor, Connor, Connor, Connor…” Kiley repeats, and this time she can’t control the tremor in her voice. “Every fucking thing that comes out of your mouth is that fucking name.”

The words land heavy between them.

Irreversible.

Hudson makes a strange sound, almost a stammer, like the words are getting stuck in his throat.

“Is there no other word in your vocabulary?”

“What other name am I supposed to say if it’s the fucking name you keep bringing up?” Hudson snaps, the words coming out rough, completely unfiltered.

The silence that follows is brief, but dense. The moment the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. Kiley knows Hudson hates being rude—especially to her. Getting angry at Kiley is something he avoids at all costs.

“No… I’m sorry,” he adds immediately, lowering his tone. “I didn’t mean—”

She hears him exhale deeply, like he’s trying to force the tension out of his chest.

“I don’t understand…” he repeats, now barely above a whisper—more tired than angry—like someone genuinely trying to make sense of something slipping through his fingers.

Kiley can picture him with painful clarity: stopping mid-step, his body going still while his mind struggles to process something he never expected to hear. Leaning against a wall, maybe, like he needs something solid to keep from losing his balance.

She stays silent after that, breathing unevenly, fully aware there’s no going back now. Whatever she says next, it’s already out there. She presses her lips together before speaking—but when she does, the restraint is gone.

“I’m tired of Connor,” she says, almost hissing. “I’m tired of it feeling like you breathe through him. Is that so fucking hard to understand?”

“But—” Hudson’s attempts to jump in are clumsy. “Babe, this is new to me. We’ve talked about this before. You never said anything about it.”

“I’m not your mom, Hudson,” Kiley says. “I don’t have to raise you. I don’t have to teach you what’s right and what’s wrong.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Hudson is starting to get angry. “You’ve been distant with me, you don’t reply to my messages, you’re cold, then suddenly you want to talk, you act normal, and then there’s something else and you go straight for my throat.” He exhales hard. “Can you give me a fucking minute to try to understand what’s going on?”

“Of course,” Kiley says sarcastically. “You’re not a descendant of Nostradamus. You’re just my boyfriend, I guess. Are you?”

Hudson scoffs at the question, struck all at once by how ridiculous everything suddenly feels.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Do I look like I’m fucking with you?”

On the other end of the line, Hudson inhales sharply. Then, through the phone, there’s the dull thud of a door slamming shut. He’s reached the apartment.

“No,” he replies, raising his voice slightly. “I’m not understanding you, Kiley.”

That’s what finally breaks her.

“Right,” she snaps, blunt and unapologetic. “Because it’s not the first time, after all. You always stay together. You always go out together. You go to the movies together, have dinner together, spend New Year’s together, travel together… together, always together.” Her voice speeds up. “It’s not the first time you’ve stayed together. Not at all.”

There’s a brief silence. Then Hudson speaks again, tension unmistakable now.

“No, this isn’t the first time,” he says. “So what’s the fucking problem now? Why now? I told you I didn’t choose this, and even if I had, I need you to explain what exactly is wrong with that.”

Kiley closes her eyes.

Because that’s the hardest part to say.
Because she doesn’t know how Hudson is going to react.
Because she senses—with a certainty that tightens her chest—that once those words are said, they can’t be taken back. Something will shift between them. Something might break.

They could break up. Does she want to break up?

Kiley is terrified. But ignoring what’s happening feels like betraying herself. She takes a deep breath, gathering the courage to speak again, to finish what she started—

—but she doesn’t get the chance.

Through the phone, she hears another door opening. Footsteps. Then a brief, sharp sound, followed by a small, startled noise that escapes Hudson before he can stop it.

Kiley freezes, the phone pressed tightly to her ear.

“I’ll call you later,” Hudson says. That’s all.

Just like that. In the middle of an argument that already hurts too much to be left hanging in the air.

Kiley stares at the wall in front of her, stunned. She can’t remember the last time they had a real fight. Hudson knows she’s hurt, knows she’s angry—and still, I’ll call you later?

Anger floods her all at once, hot and impossible to contain. She speaks before she can stop herself.

“What?” she lets out, laughing without humor. “Let me guess… is it Connor again?”

Her voice rises, cracking without quite becoming a scream.

“Tell him to leave. Tell him you’re busy. Go lock yourself in your fucking room. What do you mean, you’ll call me later?”

“I’ll call you later,” Hudson repeats.

And without waiting for an answer, he hangs up.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Tears spill down Kiley’s face before she can stop them. Did that really just happen? Did Hudson really leave her like that, right then, with everything still half-said?

She didn’t even hear Connor’s voice. Maybe it wasn’t even him. So what? Hudson was already at the Airbnb—it wasn’t work, it wasn’t an emergency. Couldn’t he find a little privacy? Did how she felt really matter that little?

Rage and pain collide. She screams—a long, raw scream that comes from deep inside her. Gizmo bolts from the room, startled by the sudden sound. Kiley sinks down beside the bed and ends up on the floor, her back against the mattress, crying without restraint. She cries until her chest aches, until her body starts to give out.

When Hudson calls again, the sobbing has eased, but she’s still there, sprawled on the floor, staring at nothing, her heart clenched in a way that feels almost physical.

She looks at the phone screen with resignation.

Is he calling now to talk to her? After talking to Connor? Did he put him first again?

She knows—somewhere in the more reasonable part of her mind—that maybe it wasn’t like that. That maybe something else happened. But right now, there’s no room for reason. There’s only anger, jealousy, and an old sadness that’s tired of waiting.

She answers without preamble.

“Babe—” Hudson says.

Kiley’s stomach twists with pure anxiety. Before he can go on, she cuts him off.

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

The question lands without warning. It’s not gentle or curious—it’s precise, like she’s been waiting for the exact moment to drop it. On the other end of the line, Hudson doesn’t answer right away. Kiley hears his breathing change, a slight hitch that tells her she’s caught him off guard.

“Are you aware that you dream about him?” she continues, her voice steady, dangerously controlled. “Did you know that a few nights ago I could hear you moaning his name? Did you know I could feel how fucking hard your dick was next to me—and it wasn’t because of me, it was because of him? Do you even remember that when you felt my body, you grabbed my arm and called me by that fucking name?”

Kiley lets out a humorless laugh.

“Oh right—no. You don’t remember, because you were asleep. So yeah. Everything that comes out of your mouth is that fucking name, and apparently it comes out of your pants too. Go fuck yourself.”

She hangs up without waiting for a response.

***

Hudson hadn’t slept the night before. Not a single real minute.

He’d lain on his back, arms rigid at his sides, eyes wide open and fixed on the darkness of the ceiling, as if the answers might be hiding there. The apartment was silent, but his head wasn’t. Every thought arrived late and wrong, crashing into the next, out of order, without rest.

His chest felt heavy—not like pure anxiety, but like something had been placed on top of it and he didn’t know how to remove it. He was breathing, but the air never quite reached the bottom of his lungs.

So when morning came, his body collected the debt.

He was in the bathroom, bent over the sink, water running even though he doesn’t remember turning it on. His face is soaked, his hands pressed against the cold porcelain. He lifts his head and catches his own reflection in the mirror.

He hates what he sees.

Really hates it.

His skin looks dull, his eyes bloodshot, his pupils blown wide. His jaw is locked tight, like he’s spent the whole night grinding his teeth without realizing it. For a second, he wants to turn away—to not look—but he doesn’t. He forces himself to hold eye contact with his reflection.

He doesn’t deserve to look away.

He skips his skincare routine. Doesn’t even open his toiletry bag. The idea of taking care of himself feels stupid. Almost insulting. Take care of himself—for what?

There’s something stuck in his throat. It’s not tears. It’s worse. A thick knot of unsaid shit, images he can’t erase, words lodged in him like splinters.

Kiley’s voice comes back out of nowhere. Not her tone. The words.

He feels the nausea before his brain catches up. Heat rushes up from his stomach, his mouth fills with saliva, cold sweat slicks the back of his neck. He tries to straighten up, but his legs don’t cooperate fast enough.

He barely makes it to the toilet.

He folds over it and throws up hard, like his body just hijacks the wheel. His stomach keeps clenching, emptying itself even when there’s nothing left. Acid burns his throat, his eyes watering without his permission.

He ends up dry-heaving bile.

He stays there, gasping, one hand gripping the rim of the toilet, the other shaking like it doesn’t belong to him. His breathing is all over the place, his heart racing. His whole body is on edge, like he’s just been hit by something he didn’t see coming.

It’s not just the lack of sleep. Or the nausea.

It’s guilt crashing down all at once. It’s denial breaking apart. It’s his body getting something his mind still refuses to accept.

Hudson closes his eyes, rests his forehead against his arm, and lets the shaking happen.

The words don’t come as a sentence. They come in pieces. Scrambled.

You talk in your sleep.
His name.
Connor.
Your dick.

Yesterday, he’d stood there frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear. His body had reacted before his brain—a cold jolt racing down his spine, his shoulders locking up, his stomach dropping like the floor had just disappeared beneath him. Heat had flooded his face, thick and sudden, followed by a wave of dizziness that forced him to brace himself against the wall by his bedroom door.

No.

No, that couldn’t be right.

His first instinct had been denial. Hard. Desperate. Dreams don’t mean shit, he’d told himself. Bodies do things on autopilot. Minds mix things up. Invent shit. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t… conscious.

But the denial hadn’t lasted.

Because Kiley hadn’t asked.

She hadn’t hinted.

She’d stated it.

The certainty in her voice had left him nowhere to hide. No hesitation. No doubt. No space to squeeze in a maybe you misunderstood.

He’d tried to replay that night.

He’d closed his eyes, like the memory might surface if he pushed hard enough. He’d dug for images, sensations—anything. Nothing. Just a dense blank. He couldn’t remember waking up in a start, or that awkward flash of bodily awareness that usually comes with dreams that feel too real.

It hadn’t been like that night in Paris. That one, he remembered.

He’d woken up painfully hard, his body reacting before his brain, Connor’s name still hovering on his lips, his pulse racing, shame crashing in seconds later. That time, at least, he’d had a clear memory to hate—something concrete to face.

This time, nothing. And that pissed him off.

It infuriated him that he couldn’t remember a single detail. Not a blurry image. Not a half-formed scene. Nothing. Like his brain had wiped the evidence right when he needed it most. As far as he knew, he hadn’t even been dreaming lately. Or maybe he had, and the dreams just evaporated the second he woke up, leaving only that vague sense of having been somewhere else without knowing where.

A blank screen. That was all he had.

And still—his body had spoken for him while he slept. When he couldn’t stop it. When he couldn’t correct it. When he couldn’t choose.

He’d fought with Connor that day.

The argument. The guilt afterward. The fear that he’d crossed a line he didn’t know how to uncross. All of it had stayed lodged inside him, unresolved. Maybe that emotional weight—that clumsy need to make things right again—had found a way out while he slept. Maybe his mind had built a reconciliation.

Just not the kind friends have.

“Fuck,” Hudson mutters, still bent over the toilet.

He straightens slowly, hands braced on his knees, body curled forward like he’s bracing for another wave. His stomach’s still a mess, but now it’s not just nausea—it’s this dense pressure sitting right in his chest.

Not the kind friends have.

The thought hits him again, sharp and brutal.

He drops into a squat, cold tile against his feet, and drags both hands through his hair, gripping it hard. He folds over himself, head between his knees, like he could make himself smaller. Like he could disappear.

“Fuck… fuck… fuck…”

The words fall out in a broken whisper, over and over, useless. His chest actually hurts. This isn’t vague stress—it’s physical. Heavy. Crushing. Forcing his breaths short and shallow.

And underneath all of it is the thing he’s been avoiding naming for way too long.

Connor is the closest thing he’s ever felt to a soulmate.

The thought stabs straight through his chest. Because that word has never—not once—come up when he thinks about Kiley. Not in all the years they’ve been together. And until now, it never seemed important. He never questioned it. He knows—or thinks he knows—that a soulmate doesn’t have to be romantic. Love comes in different shapes. Kiley has her place. Deep. Solid. Real.

But Connor has one too.

And that’s the fucking problem.

His heart rate spikes out of nowhere, like his body jumps ahead of his brain. Guilt. Fear. Denial. A sharp, uncomfortable clarity burning behind his eyes. This isn’t new. It isn’t sudden. It’s been there a long time, growing quietly, dressed up as habit, as intense friendship, as that easy closeness they’ve always had.

Hudson clenches his jaw.

The night before—after Kiley hung up on him and dropped the reason for her distance without softening it—Hudson had tried to call her back. Again and again. He’d texted, too. She hadn’t answered.

Left with nothing but the echo of that call, his next thought came on pure instinct: to go look for Connor.

He didn’t even stop to think about what he’d say. He opened his bedroom door without realizing it, heart pounding, head completely blank. No plan. No script. Just this dumb, desperate certainty that talking to Connor always makes things better.

Or so he tells himself.

Maybe not.

Maybe talking to Connor would’ve forced him to say shit out loud that he can’t even admit to himself. Maybe it would’ve dragged him into a conversation about dreams, about involuntary hard-ons, about thoughts that shouldn’t exist, about jerking off thinking about him. The panic hits him full-force in that brief moment of clarity.

Still—he goes out.

And the universe immediately slaps him back to reality.

Because François was there.

And François was holding Connor.

It hadn’t been dramatic. No kissing. No words. Just a tight, closed embrace—the kind that leaves no room for anyone else. Hudson had taken it in all at once: the way François’s body claimed the space, the way Connor fit into it, held there.

Ownership.

The thought had hit without warning and filled him with irritation. Sharp. Immediate. Embarrassing, even as he felt it.

Locking himself in his room like a scared mouse would’ve been pathetic—he knew that. Even imagining it made him cringe. But standing there and watching hadn’t been an option either. So after a quick greeting, he’d headed for the kitchen with the dumbest excuse possible: water.

His throat had burned like it’d been scraped raw. His chest had felt so heavy that breathing took conscious effort. He’d grabbed a bottle and just stood there, holding it longer than necessary, watching out of the corner of his eye as François guided Connor toward the bedroom.

Connor.
Connor.
Connor.

The name had pounded in his head with every step Connor took away. Kiley’s words had kept hammering the side of his skull, relentless. And then—for just a second—he’d had a thought that made him feel gross.

He’d hated the idea of seeing Connor with François.

He’d shut it down immediately.

That was ridiculous, he’d told himself, harshly. They’d been together before. They’d shared trips, dinners, space. This wasn’t new.

Except—it was.

Hudson had never felt jealousy like this toward François, because until now there had never been a real line blurred between him and Connor. Because deep down—selfish as hell, even if he won’t admit it—he’s always believed that even if Connor had a boyfriend, his priority was him. Hudson.

He hadn’t enjoyed knowing François felt insecure because of their friendship. He didn’t like making people uncomfortable.

But deep down—way down, in a corner he preferred not to shine a light on—there had been something disturbingly close to satisfaction in knowing that someone else could see something between them.

Connor had caught his eye before heading into the bedroom. Hudson hadn’t looked away.

It hadn’t been a challenge. It hadn’t been a provocation. And it hadn’t been an open plea, either.

It had been something blurrier than that. His gaze had stayed locked on Connor’s with a stillness that didn’t ask for permission, as if he didn’t know—or didn’t care—what exactly he was communicating.

Maybe it had been I need you.
Maybe it had been I think Kiley might be done with me.

Or maybe it had been something simpler, and way more devastating: please cross the room and come sit on this fucking couch.

Hudson hadn’t translated it into words because he couldn’t. Because doing that would’ve meant admitting the message existed at all. So he’d just held Connor’s gaze, unmoving, letting him draw his own conclusions.

And now, back in the present, staring at himself in the mirror again, Hudson lets out a slow, resigned breath.

What the hell was he supposed to expect from any of this?

He isn’t a kid. He isn’t lost, or just discovering himself. Maybe he’s a coward. Maybe he’s a bastard for dragging Kiley through something she doesn’t deserve. But he isn’t naïve—not naïve enough to keep forcing himself to deny what’s been pulsing under his skin for a long time now.

His throat tightens suddenly. A strange, choked sound slips out, like the words get stuck before they can surface. His eyes burn instantly.

He wants to cry.

Because there’s no escape route left. Because naming it makes it real. Because accepting it means none of this was a passing mistake or a convenient confusion.

Hudson braces one hand on the edge of the sink, lowers his gaze, and for the first time, barely audible, says it to himself.

“I like him,” he whispers.

The bathroom stays silent. So he adds, with an honesty that hits him square in the chest:

“And I like him a lot.”

Connor.

Saying it out loud feels like shoving a piece into place that’s been crooked for way too long.

The effect isn’t relief.
It’s impact.

The first thing he feels is physical: his stomach dropping hard, like gravity just gave up on him. His pulse spikes without warning—uneven, uncomfortable—and he has to grip the sink tighter because his legs almost give out for a second. He takes a deep breath, but the air doesn’t make it all the way down; it gets stuck in his chest, shallow and insufficient.

His body reacts before he can rationalize anything.

Heat rushes up his neck, burns his ears, his face. It isn’t exactly embarrassment—it’s exposure. Like naming it stripped off a layer of skin. He swallows, his throat raw and irritated, as if he’d screamed instead of whispered.

His heart is pounding. Too loud. Too present.

Hudson squeezes his eyes shut. For a second, Connor’s image surfaces without being invited: his voice, his low laugh, the way he leans in when he’s really listening. The memory tightens something deeper, something Hudson isn’t ready to unpack yet. Not now.

“Fuck…” he mutters.

He runs a hand over his face, feeling the dampness of his skin, the faint tremor in his fingers. He isn’t panicking—but he isn’t okay, either. He’s stuck in that dangerous middle ground where the body already knows the truth and the mind is still scrambling to catch up.

He’s said it and the world hasn’t ended.

But it hasn’t stayed the same, either.

***

Hudson doesn’t run into Connor or François that morning before heading to set, and he’s never been so grateful for anything in his life. Connor and François were called in earlier; Hudson is leaving with the rest of the crew.

He steps out of the apartment feeling like every movement is mechanical, like his body is running on muscle memory alone. His feet barely skim the floor. Ever since the realization the night before, there’s been an alarm blaring nonstop in his head, hammering at his ears. He has no idea how he’s supposed to face Connor again now that he’s admitted it.

He repeats it so many times it turns into a hollow mantra: don’t let it show. He doesn’t want—cannot—let anything slip. The thought of Connor noticing even the smallest change terrifies him. Connor knows him too well. He knows Hudson’s silences, his lingering looks, the way his eyes always betray him before his mouth does.

Hudson almost prays—half-ironic—for that not to happen this time.

Besides, none of this changes the facts. Connor has a boyfriend. And not just any boyfriend—one he’s deeply in love with. And Hudson has a girlfriend. He still does… right?

He loves Kiley. He really does. That love didn’t vanish overnight. But ever since the call—since that confession dropped like a blade—something he hates admitting has settled into his chest: a selfish, ugly feeling, the sense that he’s putting more weight on these new feelings—freshly named, freshly acknowledged—than on the very real pain of the woman who’s been by his side for years.

That’s what shames him the most.

He called Kiley before leaving at 12:05. She didn’t answer. He texted her afterward. She didn’t read them. Hudson isn’t surprised. He knows it’s fair. If their roles were reversed, he’d be drowning in anger too. In distance. In silence.

This isn’t something he can fix with a rushed phone call or a well-meaning text. He needs to see her. He has to see her. But there’s no room for that now—not in the middle of filming, locked schedules, and days that don’t belong to him anymore.

For a moment, he even considers flying out that same night and making it back in time for set. The idea lasts exactly as long as it takes to do the math. The hours don’t line up. He isn’t even getting six hours of sleep a night, and a single flight would eat more time than he has.

Hudson exhales slowly as he climbs onto the crew transport.

Everything is out of sync.

“Wow,” Callan says as soon as he sees him. “You okay?”

Hudson looks at him a second too long, dazed, only then realizing he doesn’t remember when he got there—or when he sat down.

“What?” he asks, still off-kilter.

“You look like shit.”

Great, Hudson thinks. Exactly what I needed.

He forces a half-smile and turns toward the window, as if the reflection might offer an explanation he doesn’t have.

“Your stylist’s gonna have a hell of a job today,” Callan adds, blatantly pointing out the dark circles and obvious pallor.

“Fuck off, Callan,” Hudson shoots back.

The tone is light, automatic, even if inside he’s in no mood to joke. Callan laughs anyway, like he knows—or suspects—it’s not the time to dig deeper.

They head toward set, and Hudson silently thanks whatever god might be listening that Callan can’t shut up. His constant chatter pulls Hudson out of his head for a bit, drags him into a trivial conversation about some hockey game Callan watched the night before. Hudson nods, throws in minimal comments—just enough to stay present.

When they finally arrive, his heart gives a clumsy lurch in his chest. The mere thought of seeing Connor is unraveling him. It isn’t just the weight of last night’s conversation anymore—now there are these new feelings, insistent, pounding from the inside like they’re demanding immediate attention.

His legs shake when he steps out of the van.

Hudson walks with the rest of the crew, trying to count his steps—one, two, three—like that ridiculous exercise might keep him grounded. It doesn’t. His body moves ahead; his mind trails several meters behind.

Then he hears Connor’s voice in the distance.

The impulse is instant: run. Turn around. Disappear. He feels like an idiot teenager, the kind who hides in the school bathroom to avoid the person they like, convinced that running away is a valid strategy.

Everything’s going to be fine, he tells himself.
Everything’s going to be fine.

The words pile up in his throat, thick and misplaced. He almost dry-heaves them out before swallowing them back down.

“Hey, Hudson,” Jacob calls, lifting a hand to wave him over.

Hudson nearly throws up when he looks up and sees them together—Jacob with Connor and François, talking like his world isn’t about to come apart from the inside.

Fuck, he thinks.

His heart is slamming so hard against his ribs that for a second he’s sure he’s about to pass out right there, in front of everyone. Blood roars in his ears. Swallowing doesn’t help. Breathing doesn’t either.

But he forces himself to move. He’s an actor, after all.

He walks toward them with a clumsiness that feels humiliating, like in dreams where you try to run and your body won’t respond—heavy, slow, traitorous. Every step costs more than it should.

With bitter irony, he’s grateful for the faint leftover awkwardness between him and Connor from the boundaries talk. If Connor notices anything off—the stiffness, the lack of eye contact, the racing pulse—he can chalk it up to that. Familiar tension. Something explainable.

“Hey, guys,” Hudson says, his tone far too casual for someone who feels seconds away from collapsing.

Connor smiles back at him. Sweet. Open. The kind that’s always felt safe, familiar.

Fuck, Hudson thinks.

His heart tightens like someone’s clenched it from the inside. Kiley’s image flashes up immediately—sharp, cruel, relentless. His guilt tangles with the newly admitted desire until everything feels heavier. Dirtier.

Not only does he like Connor.
He likes him despite Kiley.

And that makes everything so much worse.

“We’re going to start with Scott’s scene about the queer players’ club proposal,” Jacob says, handing him the script.

Hudson takes it and nods. Yesterday, they reread episode two in full. He still thinks working scene by scene is more effective, even if he understands Jacob’s logic. This isn’t the time to argue methods.

He skims the script for a few seconds.

And then it hits him. His stomach tightens violently, a jolt shooting up his spine and prickling his skin.

Great, he thinks. The first thing I need after admitting I’m into my best friend is… kissing him.

Yeah. Of course.

Bitterness rises in his throat. Hudson lifts his gaze, instinctively looking for Connor—but his eyes collide with François’s first. François is watching him in a strange way, too intent. Hudson looks away immediately.

He only half listens to whatever Jacob says next—technical notes, tone, emotional intent. Hudson nods when appropriate. All he wants is to do this right. To cling to that. To the idea that he’s still being professional.

He looks back at Connor. This time, he deliberately ignores François. Connor hasn’t stopped looking at him. Hudson’s pulse slams hard against his chest.

“Okay,” Hudson says a little too abruptly. “I’m going to get changed.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns and walks off too fast, fighting the almost ridiculous urge to bolt. He needs to move. To drain his body of everything that’s built up inside.

He feels like shit. Inhuman, even. For allowing himself to feel this way. For getting nervous around Connor while Kiley is on the other side of the country, hurting because of him.

He steps into the trailer they share for wardrobe and makeup and drops into the chair in front of the vanity. When he catches his reflection in the mirror, he can’t hold his own gaze. He presses his forehead against the cold surface and closes his eyes.

His heartbeat thunders in his ears. Too loud.

Then the door opens.

His body goes rigid instantly, before his brain can even catch up. The smell of tangerines hits him like a punch to the gut.

Please, not now, he thinks, almost begging.

He doesn’t think he can handle this.

“Huddy…” Connor’s voice comes from behind him.

Hudson doesn’t lift his head.

Please leave, he wants to say. I need you to leave.

The plea gets stuck in his throat. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t respond at all.

“Huddy?” Connor insists, unmistakable concern in his voice now.

Hudson lifts his head just a few centimeters and turns enough to look at him. Connor leans in, trying to catch his face, like he needs to make sure Hudson is actually okay.

“I’m fine,” Hudson murmurs.

The lie scrapes his throat on the way out. He feels like he’s coming apart from the inside.

Connor plants both hands on the arms of the chair and gently spins it until Hudson is facing him. Hudson has to grab the edge of the vanity to keep from getting dizzy. His breathing is off—short, shallow. Like the air isn’t fully reaching his lungs.

“Don’t lie to me,” Connor says, with that dangerous softness that always dismantles him. “You don’t look okay.”

Hudson swallows. The urge to drop his gaze is instant, but he forces himself to hold it for one more second. Just long enough not to look like he’s completely running away.

“Well,” he says, forcing a half-smile, “it’s not that bad. I mean… I’ve played corpses under better lighting, but this is just a premium emotional hangover. Very exclusive. Very artistic.”

The joke comes out clumsy, frayed—but it’s all he has to keep from breaking right there, with Connor so close, looking at him like he can read the entire disaster written across his face.

Connor doesn’t smile. The joke doesn’t land. His expression stays the same—alert, tense, genuinely worried. And Hudson can’t blame him. He feels like shit, and apparently he looks like it too.

Connor lifts his hand without really thinking about it. The gesture is automatic, learned over years of closeness. He brushes the back of his fingers against Hudson’s cheek—brief, gentle, intimate in a way that’s no longer innocent. Hudson feels the touch like a silent lash: his skin burns, his chest tightens, the air gets stuck somewhere between his ribs.

It lasts only a couple of seconds.

Connor pulls his hand back immediately, like the contact burns. Like something switches on in his head in that exact moment: boundaries. Hudson catches the precise shift in his face, the split second where Connor reminds himself he has to step back, that he can’t touch him like that.

Hudson is more grateful for that than he wants to admit.

If Connor left his hand there one second longer, Hudson is sure he would crack. He isn’t breathing right—not with Connor this close, not with that tangerines scent flooding his senses, not with everything he knows now screaming inside him.

The conversation about boundaries had happened before everything exploded inside him. Before he accepted the truth. And for the first time, Hudson understood that maybe that moment had been the only thing keeping him upright.

“I’ll do it right,” Hudson says, his conviction fragile, almost childish. “I swear.”

It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than Connor.

Connor frowns, tilting his head slightly, reading him. He always does. He never sticks to the words; he looks for what’s underneath.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he says finally, more serious. “I mean…” He exhales slowly. “Did you talk to Kiley?”

The question hits Hudson like a punch to the gut. With cruel clarity, he thinks that getting clocked in the nose would hurt less.

He looks away immediately. His hands, clenched in his lap, curl tighter.

“Is it that bad?” Connor asks, quieter.

“I don’t want to—” Hudson stops, clears his throat. “I don’t want to talk about that right now. Not before we shoot. Not here.”

When he looks back up, it’s just enough to meet Connor’s eyes with a silent plea: please, not now.

Connor holds his gaze for a few seconds. Then he nods once.

“Do you want to talk later?”

“There’s not much to update you on, Connor,” Hudson says, his voice coming out drier than he means.

Connor takes the hit without arguing.

“Okay,” he says, resigned. “I’ll wait until you’re ready.”

Hudson barely manages to look at him. His face feels tight, like any expression might shatter it. Kiley. Connor. Connor. Kiley. Everything tangled together, spinning without order.

“Hey,” Connor says suddenly.

He leans in again, and this time he doesn’t hesitate. He cups Hudson’s cheek with his palm—firm, warm. A clear, protective touch.

“You’re not alone, okay? You don’t have to—”

Hudson gently pulls away. It isn’t abrupt. It isn’t rejection. It’s just… necessary. Connor’s hand hangs in the air for a beat too long before curling into a fist and dropping to his side.

“I know,” Hudson cuts in.

Then he manages a tired, sad smile.

“Are you okay?” Connor asks again.

It doesn’t sound insistent. It sounds like you can tell me everything without saying anything. Hudson understands.

His lips tremble. He bites them, trying to control it. It isn’t enough. Connor has already seen it.

Carefully, Connor takes his chin and tilts his face up.

“Are you okay?” he repeats.

Hudson shakes his head slowly. Barely a movement. His face breaks without tears—just pure, contained fear.

No, I’m terrified, he wants to say.

Hudson knows Connor wants to hug him. It’s written all over his body. But he doesn’t. He stays there, present, respecting a boundary neither of them fully understands yet.

Then he smiles, just a little.

“Hey,” Connor says softly. “This will pass. It always does. You’re Hudson Williams… you survive this shit even when you really shouldn’t.”

Hudson closes his eyes for a second, letting the words settle somewhere safe.

“Thanks,” he whispers. “No one better suited to the role of best friend.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. They sound off. Forced. Like he needs to remind Connor—and himself—what role they’re supposed to play.

Connor raises an eyebrow, tilting his head in an exaggeratedly thoughtful way.

“Sure,” he says. “I mean, look at me. Years of intensive professional best-friending. Honorary doctorate in handling existential crises. And don’t even get me started on my natural talent for showing up right when everything’s going to hell.”

Hudson lets out a short, inevitable laugh.

“Idiot.”

“The best,” Connor says, tapping his chest. “It’s in the contract. Fine print.”

Connor lets the playful expression drop, replacing it with something steadier, more serious. He gives Hudson a gentle tap under the chin, making him lift his face slightly.

“I’m always going to be here,” he says. “If you need something… call me. If you don’t, that’s okay too.”

“I know,” Hudson says quietly.

Connor doesn’t pull away right away.

“And if you need to fall apart and tell everything to go to hell for a day,” he adds, “do it falling backward. I’ve got you.”

Hudson’s head spins, like the world shifts half a centimeter off its axis. He nods slowly, a small, genuine smile forming. There’s no drama in what Connor says. No grand promises. Just brutal honesty.

Hudson knows it.

It doesn’t matter when.
It doesn’t matter how.

They’re always there. For each other.

“You really are the best,” Hudson murmurs, half joking.

Connor smiles, crooked.

“The best for you.”

And that’s why I like you so much, Hudson thinks.

Chapter End Notes

Well, I think we’ve reached one of the first big turning points in the story’s development: our dear Hudson has finally accepted what he feels ✨

I couldn’t update yesterday like I’d feared, so I hope this chapter makes up for the wait ⏳🤍 I’ve been really busy with work, so I apologize in advance for any extra mistakes—I didn’t get to reread it like I usually do, especially for grammar 🙏

If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading—truly 🥺💖 I’m incredibly grateful for all the love this story has received.

Chapter 9: Scraps

Chapter Notes

Hudson was standing in the cramped bathroom of the production trailer they used as a dressing room. The space was awkward, almost suffocating, but he didn’t move. He stayed there in front of the small mirror, studying his reflection with a focus that bordered on obsessive. There was something in his expression he didn’t like. Something he couldn’t afford to bring onto set. There were only a few minutes left before they started filming.

He leaned over the sink and brushed his teeth, bracing his hands on either side as if he needed to anchor himself to something solid. Makeup would come next—a quick touch-up. Everything else—the doubts, the noise in his head—would have to stay there, locked inside those narrow walls.

For far too long now, he’d been telling himself the same thing: he was a professional. He had no right to feel like this. Not now. Not over this. He was a good actor. Very good, actually.

LTime to prove it, he thought, with a harshness he rarely aimed at anyone but himself.

The irony was that the universe hadn’t given him any room to adjust. Not even a breather. He’d barely had time to put a name to what he was feeling before everything started to fall apart. He liked his best friend.

The sentence landed in his mind with uncomfortable clarity.

Yeah? So what?

Hudson clenched his jaw. He knew this wasn’t new. It hadn’t come out of nowhere, and it couldn’t be brushed off as a passing confusion. The feeling had been there for a long time, growing quietly, tucked into everyday gestures, into a closeness he’d never questioned. Until now. Until he could no longer call it anything else. Until he understood that what he felt for Connor didn’t fit inside the word friendship, no matter how hard he’d tried to force it.

The fact that Connor was completely unaware of what Hudson felt—that for him it was as unthinkable as it had once been for Hudson himself—brought a strange kind of comfort. It wasn’t relief. Not exactly. But it made things simpler. Safer. As long as Connor couldn’t even conceive of the idea that Hudson might feel something more, nothing would spill over.

Hudson would never tell him. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he put his best friend in such an uncomfortable position, for making him carry something he’d never asked for. But beyond that, saying it out loud carried an even bigger risk: he could lose him.

And Hudson wasn’t willing to do that.

Because losing Connor wouldn’t just mean not seeing him anymore, or breaking a routine. It would mean losing the place he always returned to when everything else fell apart. And as much as it hurt to admit it, Hudson would rather live with that silence than face a void he had no idea how to fill.

Then there was Kiley.

The thought hit him with the weight of something he’d been avoiding all day. Every minute had been a quiet torture. His girlfriend hadn’t replied to his messages or his calls, and Hudson didn’t know whether to keep pushing or disappear for a while. Either option felt wrong. He was afraid of being too insistent, but he was just as terrified of doing nothing after everything she’d said the night before.

He let out a long, exhausted breath, feeling the world tighten slightly around his chest.

He hated knowing he’d hurt her. Hated even more admitting that he couldn’t deny what he felt. Because if Kiley decided to stay—a possibility he could barely process—Hudson knew he wouldn’t be able to lie to her. He wouldn’t be able to soften it. He wouldn’t be able to hide behind half-truths.

He wouldn’t be able to say you misunderstood.

He wouldn’t be able to say I don’t like him.

He knew exactly what he would say.

Yes.

And I’m sorry I hurt you.

Hudson’s stomach twisted when he realised it was time to leave the bathroom and get ready for the scene. His time was up. He didn’t know if he imagined it or if it was real, but his hand trembled slightly as he turned the handle.

Warm air hit him all at once as he stepped out. He took one step forward and stopped short.

Sophie was standing right in front of him, yanking her hand away from someone else’s grip. Her expression was tight, sharp, like she’d just drawn a line. Hudson needed only a second to recognise the other person: François. There was something broken in the scene, something he couldn’t quite grasp, but it felt too charged to ignore.

Sophie’s expression didn’t change when she saw him. She didn’t look surprised or uncomfortable. If anything, there was a flicker of relief in her eyes, as if Hudson’s appearance had interrupted something that was becoming unbearable.

François, on the other hand, didn’t look annoyed.

He looked devastated.

The image lodged itself in Hudson with a dull unease. Part of him wanted to step back, close the door, and pretend he hadn’t seen anything. That he hadn’t walked in at exactly that moment.

Was he missing something? Or, worse, was he already too tangled up in something he didn’t fully understand?

“Are you ready?” Sophie asked, with a casualness that clashed with the atmosphere. That day they were shooting a scene where Rose went shopping with Shane; she’d arrived with time to spare.

“Yes,” Hudson replied, though his eyes drifted between her and François without much thought.

He wasn’t nosy. He never had been. And yet, the question burned on his tongue—impatient, dangerous.

What’s going on between you two?

He didn’t ask it.

“By the way,” Sophie said, turning slightly so her gaze could reach François. Something shifted in her voice. “I meant what I said. I didn’t lie to you.”

His face tightened instantly, twisting into a hard, almost cruel grimace, as if her words had slammed straight into his chest. He didn’t spare Hudson a single glance. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away without a word, passing so close to Sophie he nearly brushed against her as he left.

Hudson followed him with his eyes until he disappeared between the trailers.

“Is everything okay?”

The question slipped out before he could stop it. Hudson almost kicked himself for opening his mouth. It wasn’t his business. It never was. But François hadn’t just looked annoyed—he’d looked shaken, like something inside him had cracked.

Besides, it wasn’t the first time he’d seen them like this.

The memory of the day before forced its way in without asking permission: he’d gone into the trailer looking for a quiet place to rest and had found them talking. The day before, though, the scene had been different. Sophie had looked tense, uncomfortable, while François had seemed relieved. As if he’d walked away from that conversation with something he needed.

Hudson thought that sticking his nose into other people’s problems might be the perfect excuse to stop thinking about his own shit. Still, he didn’t feel right poking around in someone else’s mess. It wasn’t his place. It never had been, and it wasn’t about to start now. So he let it go as soon as Sophie answered.

“Yes,” she sighed. “It’s just that François can be a bit stubborn sometimes.”

She smiled as she said it, but Hudson caught it immediately. It was a forced smile, carefully placed, like a door closing softly. She didn’t say anything else, and he understood that that was the line.

***

Connor had spent the last thirty minutes looking for Hudson without any luck. He’d asked members of the production crew, the technical team, even actors moving from one trailer to another. No one had seen him. The absence was starting to weigh on him more than it probably should have.

Natalie’s call had thrown him off balance.

They wanted to meet again.

Just thinking about what might come next tightened his chest. He’d already lost a Calvin Klein campaign, a decision he’d tried to downplay at the time to avoid wearing himself out over it. That had always been his way: prepare for the worst, but still hope for the best. And he wanted to believe that, sooner or later, better things would come.

The same thing had happened with Hudson. He’d lost a Hermès campaign too and hadn’t made a big deal out of it, especially since modelling had never been his priority. Still, Connor knew opportunities like that didn’t disappear without leaving a mark, even if they pretended they didn’t matter.

He’d told Natalie to email their agents and make room in the schedule. He’d said it quickly, almost on reflex. Only afterward did he start wondering if it had been the right call.

That was why he was looking for Hudson.

He needed to tell him. Say it out loud. Hear what he thought. As if sharing it might split the weight in two and make everything feel a little less unsteady.

In the middle of his search, Connor nearly walked straight into François, who hadn’t seen him coming because he was walking with his eyes fixed on the ground.

“Hey,” Connor said, to get his attention.

François looked up with a start, as if someone had yanked him out of his thoughts. The reaction was enough to make Connor frown.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately. “Why?”

The speed of the response threw Connor off slightly. He creased his brow, then quickly softened his expression. He smiled and rested a hand at François’s waist. They were in a blind spot on set, away from prying eyes; a little contact wasn’t a problem. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

“Have you seen Hudson?” he asked.

“Uh…” François cleared his throat. “I saw him a moment ago by the trailers…” —he scratched the back of his neck— “with Sophie.”

Connor nodded slowly, but he didn’t let it slide.

“Fran?” he called. François looked up at him. “Did something happen?”

There was something odd in his expression. It wasn’t anger. Not calm either. He looked… worried, maybe. Connor couldn’t quite read him, and that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

“I’m fine,” François said, lifting his hand to Connor’s face and brushing his cheek with the back of his fingers. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Connor believed him. Or at least, he chose to.

Just then, François’s phone vibrated. He startled slightly, as if the sound had caught him off guard, but he didn’t pull it out right away. Connor watched him with a mix of curiosity and confusion.

“Aren’t you going to answer?” he asked.

François hesitated a second too long. Then he took out his phone and closed his eyes for just a moment, a gesture Connor didn’t register as important at the time. He hesitated a bit more, but finally answered. Connor waited.

“Hello,” François said, in French.

Connor smiled instantly. He’d always liked hearing him speak in French, there was something in the musicality of the words, in the ease with which his tone shifted, that felt intimate even after all this time.

“I think around seven p.m.,” François continued, still in French. “Yes… no… no… no… yes… okay.”

He ended the call and, lowering the phone, gave Connor a tired smile—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Connor held it a second too long before tilting his head slightly, amused.

“Well,” he remarked lightly, “pretty straightforward, huh?”

François smiled for real this time.

“It was nothing,” François said, as if it truly hadn’t been anything important. “Connie…”

Connor raised his eyebrows in a silent you have my full attention the moment François spoke. It was automatic, almost rehearsed—his body reacted before his mind did. He shifted his stance slightly, moving his weight from one foot to the other, as if standing suddenly felt uncomfortable, like the ground no longer quite held him.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

The question came out calm, but there was something underneath it. A caution he didn’t usually need.

Since they’d reconciled in Los Angeles, at Connor’s house, François had been… different. Connor couldn’t quite pin down how. It wasn’t obvious, nothing he could clearly point to. François was still affectionate, still smiling, still speaking to him with the same closeness as always. On the surface, everything was in place.

And yet, something didn’t fit.

There were moments when François seemed to drift away without moving. He got distracted easily, lost track of conversations, and Connor had to repeat things he’d just said, as if the words didn’t fully reach him. It wasn’t disinterest—not entirely. It was more like a brief, intermittent absence, hard to call out without sounding paranoid.

“Do you remember…” François started, but the words caught in his throat.

The silence that followed was brief, barely a couple of seconds, but long enough for an alarm to go off in Connor’s chest. Something in the way François avoided his gaze, in how he took a deep breath before trying again, told him this wasn’t trivial. Even so, Connor forced himself to stay calm. He didn’t want to rush him. He didn’t want him to back out.

“Do you remember that day… the day that…?”

“Hey,” Connor said, gently gripping his arm. “You’re worrying me.”

It wasn’t an exaggeration. François’s face had gone pale all at once, as if the memory he was about to name had drained the blood from him. Whatever he was trying to say had him visibly shaken. François let out a heavy, weighted sigh.

“You don’t have to say it now,” Connor added, lowering his voice slightly. “If you don’t want to.”

He meant it as reassurance, as an out. But François shook his head immediately.

“No, it’s not that,” he said. “I don’t think I should tell you this here.”

Connor held his gaze, not letting go of his arm.

“Okay…” he said, drawing the word out just a little. “Now you really have me worried. Should I be?”

“I—”

François opened his mouth, but didn’t finish the sentence.

“Guys.”

The production assistant appeared down the corridor, breathing hard, as if he’d been combing half the set looking for them.

“Everything’s ready. We need to go now.”

Connor turned his head toward him, then looked back at François. He gave him one last look, heavy with unanswered questions. François nodded, forcing an awkward, unconvincing smile.

“It’s nothing serious, Conn,” he said, resting a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Really. We’ll talk later.”

The touch was brief, reassuring on the surface.

Connor nodded, though the feeling in his chest didn’t fully ease. He wasn’t convinced nothing had happened, but if François said he was fine, he was going to cling to that for now. It wasn’t the place. It wasn’t the moment.

***

Hudson wasn’t sure at what exact moment he’d ended up sitting on the couch. He remembered receiving the directions before the take, nodding along, storing every detail in his head with the almost obsessive precision he reserved for work. He’d always been demanding with himself. Doing things well had always mattered to him. And deep down, he liked having fun in the process, too.

But this time was different.

His nerves had tightened into a solid knot in his throat—hard to swallow, impossible to ignore. Over the past few days, he’d managed to dodge scenes with Connor that involved anything more than holding hands or casually hugging. He’d been more grateful for that than he was willing to admit. Not because he doubted his professionalism, but because he knew there were lines that, once crossed, couldn’t be uncrossed so easily.

And now he was here.
With the scene right in front of him.
With Connor right in front of him.

The memory came back without warning—sharp, uncomfortable. One of the last meetings he’d had with Jacob, even before travelling to Toronto. It had been a casual conversation, almost tossed out in passing, the kind you register without fully processing at the time. Back then, Hudson had thought it wouldn’t be necessary. That when the day came, everything would flow as it always had.

Until that very day, on set, Jacob reminded him.

“I need there to be a difference when you kiss Connor,” he’d said. “I want it to show—there’s a before and an after, once they’ve lived their relationship as boyfriends.”

The line had stuck to him.

Hudson had built Shane with an almost obsessive attention to detail, and the way he kissed was a fundamental part of that. Nothing was accidental. Shane was more reserved than Ilya, more contained in the way he approached another person. Because of that, his kisses tended to be restrained—he didn’t open his mouth much, didn’t rush, didn’t act out of urgency or desperation. He wasn’t someone who used his tongue, either. Not out of doubt or denial, but simply because that was who he was.

Instead, Shane sought contact in other ways. He was more inclined to thread his hands into Ilya’s hair, to pull him closer, to close the distance between their bodies without making everything explicit. There was intimacy in that gesture, a quiet need for closeness that said more than any exaggerated display ever could.

Jacob, however, wanted some of that rigidity to give. After the end of the first season—after Ilya and Shane officially became boyfriends—he expected to see a shift. An opening. Something that marked a clear before and after, something visually noticeable.

At the time, Hudson had told him calmly: it didn’t make sense to force it. The way Shane kissed wasn’t a defense or a rejection of the relationship. It had nothing to do with insecurity or confusion. It was simply part of his character. His nuance. His depth as a person.

But apparently, everything Jacob had heard had registered as blah, blah, blah coming out of his mouth, because his response had been simple and direct.

“Just a little,” he’d said. “Open your mouth a bit more.”

Jacob knew perfectly well that Hudson understood Shane down to the smallest detail. So well, in fact, that it almost felt presumptuous to suggest anything about the character. Hudson would know—maybe better than anyone besides Rachel—whether Shane would do something like that or not. Still, Jacob insisted. He didn’t want to erase the character’s essence; he just wanted it to bend slightly. Just enough for the change to register.

Back on the couch now, with Connor between his legs, Connor’s hands gripping the bare skin of his hips, following the rehearsed choreography of the scene, Hudson pushed his doubts aside and forced himself to focus. That was what he was good at. That was what he had to be good at.

There were dozens of eyes on them.

Lights, reflectors, cameras pointed from different angles. Everything was set for the scene to work, for every movement to look intentional, precise. There was no room for mistakes, no room for thoughts that didn’t belong to Shane.

Connor moved in time with the blocking, drawing closer and pulling back with exactness, his forehead brushing Hudson’s lower stomach in the process. For a second, Hudson was grateful the set was so crowded. That the air was thick with other people’s presence. Because it left less room in his head for intrusive thoughts.

Not with so many eyes watching.
Not with the crew’s focused attention.
And certainly not with François’s gaze somewhere on set.

“Did you forget how to do this or something?”

Hudson delivered his line with a moan, tipping his head back as he tangled his hands in Connor’s curls. Connor lifted his head, smiled that way only Ilya ever did, and said his line.

“Are you in a hurry? Do you need to get ready for the playoff game?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Hudson said, before grabbing a pillow from the couch and smacking Connor with it—playfully.

The world stopped for a second. Just one. It happened at the exact moment Connor straightened up. That was when Hudson’s body registered the warning.

No matter how hard he tried—almost viscerally—to anchor himself to the present, to cling to the lights, the voices, the weight of all those eyes on them, his heart started slamming against his chest with disproportionate force. So hard it made it difficult to breathe. His breaths turned short, uneven.

Connor cradled his face in both hands. And Hudson’s body reacted before his mind did. His head snapped back automatically, sharply, as if he were rejecting him. But he wasn’t. Not really. It was something else. A desperate, primal reflex. A clumsy attempt to flee from something he already knew was inevitable.

He was going to kiss him.

“Cut!”

Jacob’s voice rang out across the room.

Hudson almost felt like thanking him out loud. He bent forward slightly, searching for air, like he’d just broken the surface after being underwater for too long.

Fuck, he thought.

He needed to ground himself again. He needed to focus on what mattered. On the job. On the scene.

Connor shot him a quick look. Brief. And for the first time, Hudson hated how well Connor knew him. Because it didn’t take holding his gaze for long for Connor to realize something wasn’t right.

“Hudson,” Jacob’s voice came from behind him.

Hudson cursed inwardly. He turned with an almost absurdly natural, as if he had no idea what he’d just done.

“Yes?”

“Find Connor’s mouth,” Jacob said, marking the exact angle with his hands. “Don’t throw your head back so much. I need to catch it properly, okay?”

“Okay,” Hudson replied.

He said it without looking at Connor, who still hadn’t taken his eyes off him.

“We’ll go again from the top,” Jacob announced.

Connor smiled at Hudson—one of those brief smiles he used to reassure, like it was his way of saying it’s okay. Hudson wasn’t entirely sure that was what Connor meant, but he knew him well enough to read it that way. Or maybe his head really was that scrambled.

“My knees already hurt,” Connor joked, exaggerating just a bit as he touched the slightly reddened skin.

“Sorry,” Hudson murmured, low enough that only Connor could hear him.

Connor scrunched his face in a carefree gesture, brushing it off. This time, Hudson was sure he’d read Connor right.

“Spread your legs more, baby,” Connor said, winking as he adjusted his position. “And look at me.”

The last line came out as a whisper. Hudson’s heart skipped a beat when Connor held his gaze as he said it. There was something in the way he did it that dismantled his defenses completely.

Connor, you fucking bastard, Hudson thought.

You can’t go through life like this and expect no one to react to you.

Hudson forced himself to lock back into the scene. He made an almost superhuman effort to stay present, to keep his thoughts from drifting where they shouldn’t. This time, having Connor so close felt a little less suffocating.

He held on. Until Connor straightened up.

Before Connor pulled away, his hands stayed on Hudson’s hips a second longer than necessary. The grip was firm, deliberate, skirting the edge of painful. Hudson understood immediately: it was a silent command, a way of demanding his attention.

He barely had time to look at him.

Connor’s eyes shone under the set lighting, reflecting the lights in a way that made them look lighter, sharper, more intense. One hand came up to Hudson’s face, fingers pressing into both cheeks to keep him still, careful not to distort his lips. Hudson felt his breath catch in his chest just as Connor leaned in and pressed his lips to his.

His heart was beating irregularly for a few seconds. Erratic—out of rhythm. His eyes closed almost on reflex, as if his body had decided to give in before his mind did. For a brief moment, he got lost in the sensation.

Connor tasted sweet. Hudson caught the clean trace of toothpaste, mixed with something more persistent: the faint smoke clinging to his clothes, layered with the fresh, almost citrusy scent of tangerines.

Connor’s hand slid from Hudson’s jaw to the back of his neck, pulling him in with a firmness that left no room for doubt, as if Connor were trying to close the distance even further.

Hudson opened his mouth, and Connor’s tongue slipped in without hesitation, invading his space with a confidence that sent a jolt straight from his stomach to his throat. Hudson felt the warmth and the wetness fill his mouth and Connor set the pace as he tilted his head—slow at first, then firmer, deeper.

There was moisture, heat, a closeness that was hard to process without losing himself in it. Connor moved with precise control, dictating the rhythm, and Hudson was afraid—truly afraid—that Connor might feel how hard his heart was pounding.

That was when he clung to anything he could to stop himself from unraveling

It’s not Connor.
It’s Ilya.

The reminder grounded him just enough.

It’s fine, he repeated silently. You’re acting. You’re doing this right.

Not because he fully believed it, but because repeating it helped him disconnect from a far more uncomfortable truth: he was kissing Connor for the first time in more than a year, and what he felt wasn’t foreign. It was dangerously familiar. Like something his body had remembered before he had.

Connor pulled back just enough to change the angle, then kissed him again, sucking on Hudson’s lower lip with deliberate pressure, tugging it between his lips before letting it go—only to capture it again.

At some point, Hudson’s hands had tangled into Connor’s hair without him noticing. When Connor slid his tongue back into his mouth, Hudson tightened his grip, deepening the kiss just a second longer than he should have, before forcing himself to let go.

“Cut!”

Jacob’s voice cut through the room, shattering the moment like a sharp blow.

Connor and Hudson pulled apart almost immediately, though it took them a second longer than necessary to step back. They stayed facing each other, still too close. Their breaths collided in the narrow space between them, and for that brief instant, neither of them managed to fully read the other’s expression.

“That was incredible, guys,” Jacob said, the satisfaction in his voice unmistakable.

If Hudson had been fully present, he would’ve seen the director’s pleased smile. Connor stepped away quickly then, as if Hudson’s body had suddenly burned him. Hudson remained seated on the couch, trying to remember how to move his hands, how to inhabit his own body again.

Fuck.

His chest tightened with an unexpected surge of guilt. Because for a second, that kiss had felt too real. Too much his. As if he’d crossed an invisible line without consent, even within the performance. As if he’d kissed Connor without his consent.

Jacob asked for it, he told himself.
He just wanted it to be more intense.

He clung to that idea.

“Are you okay?” Connor asked.

Before Hudson could answer, Connor lifted his hand and brushed his thumb over the skin around Hudson’s lips, wiping it clean. The gesture was quick, almost automatic. Too intimate to go unnoticed.

“Of course,” Hudson replied.

He smiled, and to his relief, his voice came out natural. Convincing. So convincing that Connor smiled back at him the way he always smiled—open, bright, like sunlight breaking through.

Just over forty minutes had passed since Hudson had finished shooting his scene with Sophie. He was sprawled across one of the dressing room couches, waiting for the final take of the day to wrap. Normally, he stayed on set to watch how the scenes turned out, but this time exhaustion had gotten the better of him.

He stared at the ceiling without really seeing it, his phone clutched in one hand, resting against his chest like dead weight. He wasn’t using it. He was just holding it there, as if letting go would mean having to think.

He could still taste Connor lingering on his lips.. It lingered—persistent, unsettling. His lips seemed to remember more than he wanted to admit, as if the body’s memory was more faithful than the mind’s. Hudson sighed and rolled on the couch until he was curled in a fetal position.

The heaviness in his chest wouldn’t go away. It was dense, oppressive, knotting his stomach until it made him nauseous. It wasn’t just guilt; there was also an uncomfortable emptiness, a hollow feeling he couldn’t seem to fill with anything.

He hadn’t written to Kiley again. The chat was weighed down with unread messages, missed calls, accumulated silence. And now this. Now him.

Did that count as cheating?

The question cut through his thoughts without asking permission.

Was it cheating if he didn’t even know whether they were still together?

No, he answered himself firmly, almost harshly.

No. You were acting. Acting. What kind of bullshit is that?

He repeated it several times, as if insisting might make it true. But the firm answer didn’t bring relief. It only pushed him somewhere else.

Hudson let out a slow breath and unlocked his phone without thinking too much. The screen lit up and, for a second, he was afraid he’d see Kiley’s name there, finally replying to everything he’d sent. But it didn’t happen. The silence was still there Anything would work, as long as he didn’t have to sit still…. Just as heavy.

He didn’t open the chat.

Instead, he swiped to anything else. Social media. News he didn’t care about. Short videos he wouldn’t remember five minutes later. Anything worked, as long as he didn’t have to sit still with that thought looping in his head.

The taste in his mouth was still there—persistent, traitorous. Hudson pressed his lips together, as if he could erase it that way, and shifted again on the couch, sinking deeper into the cushions. He covered part of his face with his forearm, seeking refuge in a gesture that felt almost childish.

He didn’t want to think.

Not about Connor.
Not about the kiss.
Not about Kiley.

Anything but that.

He opened a notes app and typed a meaningless sentence, just to keep his hands busy. Deleted it immediately. Typed again. Deleted again. The repetitive motion gave him a fake calm, a sense of control he knew was false, but good enough for the moment.

Later, he told himself.

I’ll think about this later.

As if he could put the mess on a schedule.

His body, however, refused to keep pace. His chest was still tight, his stomach still hollow. Hudson closed his eyes again—this time not to escape, but to pretend he was resting. That nothing had happened. That the day had simply been long.

Several minutes later, the door opened. Hudson’s body tensed, the thought that it might be Connor flashing through him immediately. In a way, he was terrified Connor might say something. Even though he had no reason to, right? Hudson had been acting.

Hudson pushed himself upright to see who it was. He fully sat up when François walked in.

“Hey,” François said, taking a seat on a chair angled toward the couch where Hudson was.

“Hey,” Hudson replied, a little thrown.

It was strange. The two of them hadn’t really spoken since the argument at Hermès. This was the first time they were alone together—no Connor nearby, no third parties to cushion the tension.

“Are you done for today?” Hudson asked.

As he said it, he felt the guilt settle into his chest with a new kind of discomfort. Before, when he saw François, the first thing he’d felt was anger—over the slights toward Connor, the poorly hidden jealousy. But now, with the uneasy awareness of what he himself felt, he couldn’t help wondering how unfair he’d been to him.

“Yeah,” François replied, letting out a long sigh. “Connor’s finishing up the last thing of the day.”

“Yeah, I know,” Hudson said, glancing at his phone almost on reflex. It was 7:15 p.m.

The silence that followed was awkward. Heavy.

Hudson and François had been friends, to some extent. Not confidants. Maybe something closer to acquaintances who spent too much time together to be indifferent to one another. They’d never shared personal things, never crossed that line. But they went out together, could talk about trivial stuff, work, anything that didn’t demand depth. Most of those plans had almost always been double—Connor and Kiley completing the equation.

“Hey, listen…” Hudson said, breaking the silence. “I want to apologize to you.”

François lifted his head too quickly, not bothering to hide his surprise.

“Why?”

“I was a fucking asshole that day at Hermès,” Hudson said bluntly. “You weren’t okay and I…” —he made a vague gesture— “basically poked the wound. And I wasn’t even assertive. I was just cruel.”

François let out a loose, tired smile.

“Oh…” he shrugged. “I get it. I was an asshole toohe added, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I think I would’ve done the same thing you did.”

“No,” Hudson said, shaking his head. “I really am sorry. I crossed a line that day.”

François lowered his gaze to his hands, now clasped tightly together in his lap.

“It’s fine,” he said after a moment. “Does Connor know?” He cleared his throat. “I mean… did you tell him? You know.”

“He basically told me to eat shit,” Hudson replied, letting out a dry laugh.

François laughed too, this time with a touch of genuine sincerity.

“He got mad at me.”

“Now I get it,” François nodded, something in his expression settling into place. “That makes sense.”

Silence settled between them again, but this time it wasn’t quite as uncomfortable. Not comfortable either. Just different. Like something had shifted.

“What makes sense?” Hudson asked.

François barely smiled.

“That you apologized.” He leaned back against the chair, letting his shoulders sagging, as if the exhaustion had finally caught up with him. Hudson noticed it. It wasn’t performative. “Connor gets upset when he feels pushed,” François said after a few seconds. “Not when he messes up. When he feels forced to look at something he’s not ready for, or when someone suddenly makes him face something he wants to handle on his own terms.”

“Yeah,” Hudson replied, though something tightened in his stomach. “I guess.”

The impulse came immediately—small, but sharp—to say: I know.

He’s my best friend.
I know him even better than you do.

The thought crossed his mind so fast it caught him off guard. There was something clumsy about it, almost childish. A stupid flare of… jealousy? The word made him uncomfortable even in silence.

Because François was talking about Connor with a certainty that prickled at Hudson. Like he was explaining something Hudson didn’t know. Like what Connor had felt in that moment was foreign territory to him.

And it wasn’t.

Hudson knew exactly what he’d done wrong. He knew precisely which gesture, which phrase, which tone had finally set Connor off. His tongue itched to tell François that his reading was superficial, that if he was speaking from closeness, Hudson could do it from somewhere much deeper. That he could explain—uncomfortably clearly—what Connor had been thinking that day. What had actually hurt him.

But he didn’t.

He swallowed the words along with his pride, aware that saying them wouldn’t make him feel better. It wouldn’t clarify anything. It would only make things worse. So he stayed quiet.

François looked at him then. Not head-on, not intrusively. It was a sideways look, measured, like he was gauging how far he could go without saying too much.

“You’re not a bad person,” he added. “You just… reacted from a complicated place.”

Hudson frowned slightly.

“Complicated?”

François’s lips curved into a light smile that never fully settled.

“We all have something like that,” he said. “Some people just hide it better than others.”

There was something in the tone, in the pause that followed, that made Hudson freeze. Immediately alert. As if he’d just heard a sentence with a subtext beneath it.

“What do you mean?” he asked carefully.

François dropped his gaze back to his hands—the same ones he’d been clenching before. This time, he let them go.

“Nothing in particular,” he said. “Just…” —he shrugged— “I’ve spent enough time watching Connor to notice when things start to come apart around him.”

A brief, almost imperceptible chill ran through Hudson.

“Watching?” he repeated.

François looked up again, and for the first time, he didn’t smile.

“Living with him,” he corrected. “Eating with him. Fucking him. Waking up with him.”

Wow, Hudson thought.

For a second, he’d naïvely believed they were starting to understand each other again. That the conversation was settling into more neutral ground. But this wasn’t common ground. It was something else entirely. A very explicit way of staking a claim around Connor.

Hudson let out a short, dry laugh.

“That sounds hard,” he said, with sarcasm he didn’t bother to hide.

François raised an eyebrow, demanding an explanation without saying a word.

“I mean…” Hudson went on, tilting his head slightly. “It must be exhausting. Watching him that closely all the time. In private, in the everyday stuff. Tracking every tiny shift in his mood, the way he talks, the way he breathes when something weighs on him.”

He paused. Brief. Measured.

“Almost like keeping a running report,” he added. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It must be even harder for you,” François shot back.

Hudson didn’t respond. He didn’t look away either. He just held François’s gaze, steady, as if he sensed that moving, speaking, or blinking too soon might make the moment collapse.

François held his stare for another second.

“You might even know him better than I do,” he continued. “Maybe even more.”

Hudson felt something hollow open up—slow, deep.

“But you don’t get anything in return.”

“What?” Hudson murmured.

The word came out low, almost strangled. Not because he hadn’t heard, but because he needed a moment to process it.

François didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t make a show of it. He just said the next thing with a clarity that hurt precisely because of how simple it was:

“You get the scraps, don’t you?”

It took Hudson a few seconds to fully grasp where the conversation had actually gone.

Was François implying something?

The idea felt absurd. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since Hudson himself had managed to put a name to what he felt for Connor. There was no way François had seen something sooner. Of that, at least, Hudson was certain.

“I’m afraid you owe Connor an apology,” Hudson said then, his voice deliberately cold.

There was no anger in it. Just distance. Control.

“I don’t know how you’ve lived your other relationships,” he went on, “or what’s happened to you in your life to carry that level of insecurity.”

François’s face tightened slightly. Hudson noticed, but he didn’t stop.

“But even if I’m misunderstanding what you’re trying to say,” he added, “have you considered that doubting our friendship like this is the same as not believing in him?”

He let out a short, humorless laugh.

“I’m his best friend. Nothing has ever happened between us.”

The words hit him in the chest with a sudden blow, like an instinct inside him had pushed back against them.Hudson pushed it down.

“Connor is in love with you,” he went on. “You’ve been together for over a year. You practically live together. He got angry with me for getting between you two that day—remember?”

He shook his head, incredulous.

“And yet here you are,” he added, lifting his chin just slightly, “marking territory. Like I’m a threat. Like you need to come here and…” —he made a vague gesture with his hand— “piss all over him.”

The silence that followed was raw.

Hudson held François’s gaze without blinking, his heart pounding harder than he wanted to admit. He’d said everything he needed to say.

François didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched a beat longer than necessary. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he seemed to be weighing his words. When he finally spoke, his voice was still calm, almost thoughtful.

“I’m not questioning your friendship,” he said. “Or Connor’s. Not in that way.”

Hudson didn’t move. He didn’t lower his guard.

“What I mean,” François continued, “and I hope this doesn’t sound rude,” —he shrugged— “is that you’re a bit selfish. Don’t you think?”

“What are you talking about?” Hudson asked, though something in his chest was already tightening.

François exhaled through his nose, visibly annoyed, and followed it with a broad gesture of his hands.

“Hudson, come on. You have a gorgeous girlfriend. You’ve been together for years. You live together. You adopted a cat. You’ll probably get married someday.”

Each word landed on Hudson like a misplaced blow. All of it sounded unreal now. Distant. Kiley probably hated him at that moment. Their relationship was hanging by a thread, and François was talking about the future as if it were a fixed certainty.

“And yet,” François went on, “you keep claiming the attention of someone who already has someone to give it to.”

“Man, therapy is something you can afford,” Hudson shot back, irritated. “So now Connor’s attention has to be yours exclusively?”

“No,” François replied, not raising his voice. “But the time that belongs to me as his partner, the moments that are ours as a couple… those aren’t yours.”

Hudson let out a short, incredulous laugh.

“I don’t understand a fucking thing you’re saying,” he said, exasperated. “Can you be more direct?”

François looked at him for another moment before speaking.

“I have a question,” he said. “Is the way you relate to Connor the same way you relate to your other friends?”

“Doesn’t that contradict what you said earlier about not doubting my friendship with him?” Hudson shook his head. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“Short answer: no,” Hudson replied with a shrug. “Long answer: Connor is my only best friend. Of course it’s different. Does that tell you something?”

François opened his mouth to respond, but said something else instead.

“That bracelet.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, the damn bracelet again,” Hudson complained. “What now?”

François leaned forward, and for the first time, his composure cracked.

“He and I can’t wear anything matching,” he said. “Not without having hate directed at us. Not without people wishing me dead.”

His voice faltered slightly at the end.

“Connor and I can’t be public without your name entering the equation,” he went on. “And yet you two trade clothes, spend too much time together, and on top of that, you get couple things.”

He let out a broken, bitter laugh.

“A couple bracelet is something he and I should be wearing. Not you two. It’s not something that belongs to you. “Did you buy one for your girlfriend? Do you have one with her? With anyone else?””

“This is ridiculous,” Hudson said, tipping his head back. “We were just replacing—”

“A fan’s gift,” François cut in. “I know. But you never stopped to ask whether it was okay.”

“You’re the only one making a big deal out of the bracelet,” Hudson said, lifting both hands. “Do you see me wearing it? Do you see him wearing it?”

He didn’t mention—nor did he plan to—that he’d considered putting it back on if Connor kept wearing his.

“If a fucking bracelet makes you this insecure,” Hudson added, jaw clenched, “then do something about it yourself. Buy him one. Get matching tattoos. Give him a ring. Propose. Do whatever you want—but if you’re unwilling to act as a boyfriend out of fear, don’t expect others to hold back for you.”

François looked at him, wounded.

“I’m not going to stop my friendship with him just because you feel like crying about it,” Hudson went on.. “If you want the world to know Connor is with you, if you really want to claim him publicly, then act on it. Don’t blame other people for choices you made yourself.”

“Easy for you to say,” François replied, his face tight. “The rumours about your relationship with Kiley haven’t brought the kind of hate we’ve gotten. The hate I’ve gotten.”

He let out a humourless laugh.

“Coward? I thought you knew Connor better than I did.”

He straightened, firm.

“Between the two of us, I’m the only one openly part of the community. I’m the only one who’s faced that. Do you really think I care what people say about me?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t give a shit. I’m not doing this out of fear. I’m doing it because this would be too much for Connor. And you know it. Going public would destroy him.”

His voice dropped.

“A straight relationship is the standard. What do they accuse you of? Queerbaiting? You say ‘I’m bisexual’ and that’s the end of it. But us? Connor?”

The silence fell heavy.

“I’m not putting him through that,” François finished.

Hudson opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

It wasn’t dramatic. Barely noticeable—like his body had tried to react before his mind found something to say… and failed.

Hudson searched for an automatic comeback, some sharp line, some irony to pull him out of the place François had just left him in. He found nothing that didn’t sound cruel, unfair, or—worse—false. Everything that came to mind was built on denials that no longer fully held.

So he said nothing.

He stayed still, shoulders tight, gaze fixed on some indeterminate spot on the floor. He felt his pulse in his temples, each of François’s words echoing inside him with a delayed impact.

François watched him for a moment longer. Not with triumph. Not with reproach. With a strange, almost careful attention, as if he’d arrived exactly where he wanted to be.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” François said at last.

Hudson answered with a brief sound, barely more than a monosyllable. He didn’t look up right away. He didn’t ask anything. He didn’t say anything else.

“And if I’m being honest with you now,” François went on.

He ran a hand over his face slowly, like he was exhausted. Then he rested his elbows on his knees. His gaze fixed on the vanity, deliberately avoiding Hudson’s.

“I don’t want you staying with him.”

Hudson looked up sharply.

“What?”

“Sorry,” François added with a shrug. “Maybe I was a hypocrite earlier. Maybe I do owe Connor an apology.”

He paused.

“But not you.”

He turned his head and finally looked at him.

“I don’t trust your friendship,” he said, without harshness. “I don’t trust what you have to offer Connor.”

The words landed like a blunt in Hudson’s chest.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he snapped.

François didn’t flinch.

“I don’t like you around him,” he said at last. “And I think I’m only now being honest with myself.”

His voice didn’t shake. It didn’t crack.

“I don’t like how you are around my boyfriend.”

The words hung between them..

Hudson opened his mouth to respond, but no words came in time. He’d expected accusations. He’d expected poorly disguised jealousy, reproaches, drama.

Not this.

Not a truth stated without decoration.

“Well,” Hudson said finally.

He shrugged, his lips curving into a crooked smile meant to look casual, but with something sharp underneath.

“I’m sorry to tell you we’re working together,” he added. “And I’m even sorrier that you’ll have to go to Montreal with that bitterness in your mouth… knowing he and I will be staying here alone.”

François looked at him with renewed attention. It wasn’t what Hudson was saying, but how he was saying it. There was something different in the tone.

“Connor isn’t a child,” Hudson went on. “He’s not someone you get to handle however you want. He’s not someone you get to tell what to do or what not to do.”

He paused briefly, just long enough for the words to settle.

“In fact,” he added, “I don’t know if you’ve fully grasped this, but you can’t do that to anyone.”

François didn’t interrupt.

“And if my presence suddenly feels suffocating to you,” Hudson continued, “I’m sorry. I don’t care.”

The line landed without emphasis. Without anger. That made it worse.

“I’m going to be by his side for as long as he wants me there,” he said. “I don’t give a shit how you feel about it.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The words stayed there—solid, irreversible.

I promised Connor, he wanted to say.

But he didn’t.

“I know you won’t,” François said finally.

There was no reproach in it. Just a tired acknowledgment, spoken from a place he’d already accepted.

“And I know he wouldn’t either, if I asked him to.”

Hudson answered with a minimal shrug and a look that underlined the obvious, as if it didn’t deserve further explanation.

“But I wanted to ask you as a favour,” François added.

The sentence hung in the air.

“Excuse me?” Hudson said—not harshly, but clearly caught off guard.

François let out a long, heavy breath, as if he were finally allowing his shoulders to drop. The tension in his posture loosened just enough to reveal something else.

“Maybe I’m the one getting the scraps,” he admitted, without drama. “Maybe I always have been.”

He didn’t lift his gaze right away when he continued.

“Could you step aside, please?”

The word please came out low. Unarmed.

“I’m not asking you to step away,” he hurried to clarify. “I’m not that naïve. I know that won’t happen.”

At last, he looked at him.

“I’m just asking you to… not get too close.”

The pause before the last phrase was minimal, but loaded.

“Give me that space,” he added. “At least let me try to take it.”

There was no accusation in his voice. No threat, either. It was an awkward, human request, made from the uncomfortable place of someone who knows he doesn’t have control and still chooses to ask for something anyway.

Hudson didn’t respond.

In the van, on the way back to 1205, the atmosphere felt tense. Or at least, that’s how Hudson perceived it. No one was talking much, no one seemed overtly uncomfortable, but he had a heavy knot settled in his stomach that he couldn’t ignore.

He spent the entire ride replaying the conversation with François. Every line, every pause. But it was that final request that echoed the loudest in his head—persistent, hard to shake.

It had been a long day. One of those days where he’d felt everything at once: anxiety, desire, guilt, anger, relief. And in the middle of all that noise, Hudson realized he’d let something important slip by. Something that, at another time, he wouldn’t have forgotten so easily.

Connor and he had talked about boundaries.

The memory came back with uncomfortable clarity. An honest, necessary conversation. One they’d had precisely to keep things from blurring, to protect what they had. Maybe, Hudson thought, what had happened with Kiley had made that memory fade. As if the distance with his girlfriend had given him permission to loosen something he shouldn’t have.

Just like François had said.

Selfish.

He’d allowed himself to forget that conversation because, for a moment, no one seemed to be getting hurt. But now the question imposed itself, uncomfortable and unavoidable: wasn’t there still someone else in the equation?

Hudson knew—because he’d discovered it—that he and Connor shared a mutual emotional dependency. It wasn’t new. It wasn’t a secret. But the conversation with François had shoved it back in front of him. As if the universe were insisting he not forget it.

Connor was sitting a couple of rows ahead in the van, leaning against the window, headphones on, his gaze lost in the reflection on the glass. Streetlight spilled across his face in intervals, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion, something soft that always made Hudson look a second longer than he should.

Hudson didn’t realize he was watching him until Connor turned his head.

Their eyes met for just a moment, and Connor slipped headphones out.

“You okay?” Connor asked quietly, as if he were afraid of breaking the silence inside the vehicle.

Hudson nodded almost immediately. Too fast.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just tired.”

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the whole truth either.

Connor studied him for another second, as if weighing whether it was worth pressing. Then he nodded too—but the gesture was different. He turned his head a little too quickly, put headphones back in, and didn’t look at him again.

Hudson felt the small sting of that retreat.

They hadn’t really crossed paths since they finished filming the kissing scene. Both of them had other takes, then a quick script read, technical notes. All functional.

By then, the sensation of Connor’s lips on his—the shared warmth, the rhythm—had faded. But what remained was the uncomfortable awareness that they were still caught in a fragile dynamic, one that could spill over at any moment if no one did anything to contain it.

François was right.

Hudson wanted Connor’s attention. He sought it, and even when he didn’t ask for it, he took it for granted.

He’d had the chance to say it out loud, to name it, but the conversation had stalled, left hanging between them like something neither of them quite dared to touch. Yes, they’d tried to avoid physical contact. Yes, they’d talked about boundaries.

Fuck, it had been just the night before.

It was a fresh wound. An agreement too new to pretend it was already resolved. This wasn’t something that got fixed in a day.

Hudson rested his head against the seatback, staring ahead, aware of the space that now existed between them. Connor was still there, a few meters away, headphones on, his body angled toward the window.

The distance wasn’t large.

But for the first time, Hudson understood that maintaining it was going to take more than good intentions.

Chapter End Notes

I’m a little late, sorry 😅 I won’t say much right now, just two quick things:

1. I’m extremely sleep-deprived — it’s 3:37 a.m. in my country — but I wanted to leave this here because I won’t have time tomorrow. Sorry in advance for any mistakes, especially grammar-wise, but to quote Ilya: “English is too hard right now.”

2. PLEASE keep in mind that THIS DOESN'T COUNT AS A FIRST KISS lol

Hope you enjoy 💛

Chapter 10: Just tonight

Chapter Notes

Connor woke up that morning staring at François’s bare back.

His boyfriend was sitting on the edge of the bed, slightly hunched forward, head bowed, shoulders tense, as if he’d been awake for a while. The dim morning light filtered in through the window, tracing the line of his spine and the muscles at rest.

François was leaving that day.

Connor shifted in bed, still half-asleep, trying to move closer. He reached out carefully, as if he didn’t want to disturb anything, and rested his fingers against François’s back.

The contact lasted barely a second. François straightened abruptly, as if startled by something more than just the touch. He got out of bed without a word and went straight to the bathroom. The door closed with a dry, final sound.

Connor couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

He slowly withdrew his hand and curled his fingers into the sheets. He stared at the bathroom door, motionless, as sleep fully left him and an uneasy feeling settled in its place.

Connor rolled onto his back and let out a long breath. He stared at the ceiling for a while, tracing a faint stain in the paint with his eyes, as if he could anchor himself to something solid. From the bathroom came the steady sound of running water. He closed his eyes for just a second and allowed himself to feel that dense exhaustion settling in his chest.

It had been a year and a half since he and François had started their relationship. That wasn’t nothing. And yet Connor couldn’t shake the uncomfortable sense that instead of growing as a couple, something between them had started to move backward, especially in the last few months.

They’d argued over and over. Sometimes about small things, other times about issues that felt inevitable. And whenever he thought they’d finally worked through something—when calm returned and everything seemed to fall back into place—the same conflict would resurface, almost in a different form, but carrying the same weight.

Connor brought his hands up to his face and covered it completely, as if he could contain the thoughts that had just surfaced. As if pressing his palms into his skin might somehow organize what had been out of order inside him for far too long.

He hated feeling this way. Hated having to mentally revisit every argument, every silence, every moment when the relationship seemed to wobble a little more. But what hurt the most wasn’t the conflict itself.

It was François’s indifference.

It hurt how easy it seemed for him to get angry and shut down. To ignore him. To disappear physically and emotionally, as if that didn’t carry consequences. As if Connor could just sit there alone with everything unsaid, waiting for the other to decide to come back.

And in that exhaustion, Connor began to ask himself—for the first time without dodging it—how much longer he could hold up a relationship that seemed to destabilize him in the very place where he should feel safe.

When François came out of the bathroom, a towel loosely secured at his hip, steam trailing after him and mixing with the scent of soap, he didn’t look at Connor once. He moved around the room efficiently, opening the closet, pulling out clean clothes.

“Good morning,” Connor said at last, breaking the silence.

He was a little annoyed, if he was being honest with himself, but he didn’t let it bleed into his voice. He didn’t want to start the day the way they’d ended the night before: arguing.

“Morning,” François replied without turning around.

Connor watched him for a few seconds longer than he should have.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asked.

His tone came out softer than he’d intended, almost sweet, as if he were—without admitting it—reaching for a gesture of truce in the other’s coldness.

“I’m not,” François said.

He didn’t look at him.

Connor exhaled through his nose.

“Liar,” he muttered.

He stood and walked toward him just as François turned around, and for the first time since coming out of the bathroom, they were face to face.

“I’m leaving today,” François said dryly.

“I know,” Connor replied, and this time his voice came out lower, more tired. “Can we talk before you go?”

François didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t want you leaving mad at me,” Connor added.

“I told you I’m not mad at you,” François repeated.

His tone was calm, but Connor knew him well enough to recognize that the calm wasn’t genuine.

“Right,” Connor said, tilting his head. “That’s why you didn’t kiss me good morning.”

He tried to make it sound light, almost like a joke. A small gesture to ease the tension. To remind them of something that used to be simple.

François turned fully to look at him, and Connor instantly regretted saying it. Not because it wasn’t true, but because he saw something in François’s eyes he didn’t want to face that early in the morning. Connor didn’t want to argue. He really didn’t. He was tired.

“Connor,” François began at last, “I don’t understand what we’re doing.”

The sentence wasn’t harsh. It was tired. Connor blinked, caught off guard.

“What do you mean?”

François made a small, almost vague gesture between them.

“This,” he said. “You. Me. This relationship.”

Connor felt a faint dizziness, like the ground had shifted an inch beneath him. Not because he hadn’t thought the same thing before—he’d questioned it himself just minutes ago. He just hadn’t expected to hear it like that, without preamble.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked.

He didn’t say it defensively. He meant it. For a second, Connor thought all his effort to lower the tension had been pointless, that François just wanted to resume the conversation from the night before. But there was no anger in his posture. Just a deep, persistent discomfort.

The night before had been simple, in theory. They’d wrapped earlier than usual; both had finished their scenes and decided to go out to dinner together—like a date. Something normal. Something they needed. Hudson had stayed behind with production, so when they got back to the apartment, they were alone.

They’d wanted to make the most of that time. To say goodbye properly.

Their bodies had moved before their heads, as always. Clothes on the floor, inevitable closeness, a clear intention not to part with distance between them. But just as they were about to go further, the apartment door opened.

Hudson had come back.

Connor remembered it clearly. The immediate jolt. His body going tense. The certainty settling in without discussion.

There were things Connor could negotiate. And things he absolutely couldn’t. And fucking with someone nearby who could hear him was a clear boundary. Even more so if that someone was Hudson.

“It wasn’t a rejection of you,” he said finally, returning to the present. “It never was, and you know that.”

François looked at him, waiting.

“It’s a boundary for me,” Connor continued. “It’s not about desire. It’s about feeling comfortable. About being able to be fully there.”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck.

“I don’t want to do things halfway,” he added. “I don’t want to be wondering who might hear us. I don’t want to hold back.”

François lowered his gaze for a moment.

“And it’s not the first time,” Connor pressed. “It’s happened before and you understood.”

The words came out rushed, as if he were afraid they wouldn’t reach François if he didn’t say them quickly.

“I thought I could be myself with you,” he went on. “I thought I could say when something didn’t make me feel good. That’s what you told me last time.”

François nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “You’re right.”

There was no irony. No sarcasm. Just tired acceptance.

“I know it’s not negotiable for you to fuck with someone nearby,” he added. “I get that.”

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion etched into the gesture.

“But…” he paused. “Isn’t there any way you could bend just once?”

Connor looked at him, surprised.

“I mean,” François continued, “we won’t see each other for weeks. And sometimes I feel like… like it doesn’t matter to you as much as it does to me.”

The words came out without direct accusation, but heavy with something fragile.

“I’m not saying you don’t love me,” he rushed to clarify. “I’m saying it feels like the distance doesn’t hit you the way it hits me. Like it doesn’t weigh on you as much.”

Connor felt a knot tighten in his chest.

“That’s not it,” he said. “It’s not that I don’t care.”

He fell silent for a second, searching for the right way to put it.

“It’s sex,” he added, as if underlining something ridiculously obvious—almost insulting. “It’s just sex. Don’t we have something deeper than that? Isn’t it enough if we spend the night next to each other? Kissing? Holding each other? I don’t know… talking?”

Connor let the air out slowly, running a hand over his face before dropping it. He looked tired—but irritated too, like he’d just realized something.

“Listen,” he continued, “I like fucking with you. A lot. I want you. You turn me on, you get me hard, you drive me crazy… but sex isn’t the only thing keeping me here with you.”

Connor’s tone hovered somewhere between desperate and irritated. But he didn’t raise his voice.

“And right now I’m getting pissed,” he admitted, “apparently all this fucking anger of yours is over the fact that we didn’t fuck. Like that’s the only thing that matters.”

He lifted his hands, palms open, eyebrows raised—a mix of disbelief and genuine frustration.

“Is that really all you see? Is that all we are to you?”

“Don’t twist this around on me,” François said. His voice stayed low, almost measured, like he was stepping over fragile ground and didn’t want to set off another explosion. “It offends me that you think I could reduce this relationship to sex. What the hell?”

He exhaled sharply, dragging his tongue over his lower lip before continuing.

“What I’m trying to say,” he added, “is that sometimes you’re too rigid with me. Everything is a boundary, everything is control, everything has to pass through your fucking head before it ever reaches your body.”

François emphasized each word. He didn’t raise his voice either.

“They’re my boundaries,” Connor shot back without hesitation, jaw tight. “And I respect yours.”

François let out a short, rough laugh—completely humorless. His eyes were lit with something sharp.

“I respect yours?” he repeated, shaking his head slowly. “Don’t fucking kid yourself.”

He turned toward the closet and began pulling out clothes with abrupt movements, shoving through shirts and pants like the furniture itself had disappointed him. His back was to Connor now, but the tension still thickened the air.

“Respect isn’t just saying yes with your mouth,” he muttered. “Sometimes it’s also not treating me like I’m always asking for too much.”

Connor felt the familiar tingling settle in his stomach—that uncomfortable sensation that always showed up right before everything went to shit. His chest tightened at the same time, like someone had pressed a hand there and wasn’t planning to let go. It wasn’t surprise; it was recognition. He knew exactly where this was headed.

They’d been stuck in this dynamic for months: start with something small, circle around it, avoid certain words, and end up crashing into the same wall. The same phrases. The same accusations. The same exhaustion piling up without ever really resolving anything. The tone shifted sometimes, even the context—but the core was identical.

They were trapped in a loop neither of them knew—or dared—to break.

And the worst part wasn’t arguing again. It was knowing that, even so, nothing was going to change.

“Some boundaries make sense. Others don’t,” Connor said, lowering his voice. “Not wanting to fuck when someone can hear me… I’m sorry, but that makes sense. What, am I supposed to force myself to fuck you just to keep you happy?”

The question hung in the air—uncomfortable, loaded with something that had nothing to do with desire.

François looked at him over his shoulder while still rummaging for clothes, disapproval carved into the tension of his neck, into the way his jaw tightened. Each word seemed to irritate him more than the last.

“Expecting me to cut off my best friend,” Connor continued, holding his gaze, “I’m sorry, but that’s not respectable. It isn’t, and it never will be. It’s not the same.”

He paused briefly, as if making sure he wasn’t exaggerating, that what he felt had a name.

“That’s toxic.”

“Did I ever fucking tell you to end that friendship?”

Connor stared at him, eyes bright with anger and exhaustion.

“François…” His voice cracked slightly, just enough to betray the plea he was trying to keep under control. “I’m not an idiot. Every fucking argument we’ve had over the past few months has been about the exact same thing. I’m tired.”

He ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath before continuing, like he needed air not to explode.

“And no, you haven’t said it outright,” he admitted, “but you don’t have to. Your whole body screams it. Your jealousy, your questioning, your insecurities, your lack of trust in me. Don’t be a hypocrite. Don’t tell me that’s not what you want.”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” François cut in, flat.

Connor let out a humorless, disbelieving laugh.

“That’s funny. You’re the one who wanted to have this talk. I’m not arguing—I’m saying what I’ve been swallowing for months.”

François finally turned toward him, frustrated, hands moving through the air as if trying to organize something that refused to take shape. His breathing was heavier now, restrained, like he’d been biting his tongue for too long.

“Asking you to respect me as your boyfriend, to give me the place I deserve as such, is not the same thing as asking you to end a friendship.”

He made a sharp gesture, slicing the air with his hand, punctuated by a firm shake of his head, as if he wanted to settle it right there.

Connor felt the blow.

“When have I disrespected you as my boyfriend?” he asked, the offense barely contained under his skin.

“You said it yourself,” François shot back without hesitation. “We’ve had this conversation at least once every fucking month this year.”

His lips pressed downward, tired.

“And it’s like we never had it at all. Nothing changes.”

“Because it hasn’t made sense,” Connor snapped, his voice rising slightly despite promising himself he wouldn’t argue.

“It doesn’t make sense because it’s about me?” François fired back.

Connor blinked, dizzy. It felt like the ground was shifting under the conversation.

“I don’t understand—”

“I want you to put yourself in my place right now.” François pointed at his own chest, emphasizing every word. “Imagine you’re me. And tell me. Dare to tell me you’d be okay with this.”

Connor fell silent. He looked at him. Waited. François didn’t look away.

“What about the trip to Norway?” François raised an eyebrow. “You said Hudson wanted to see the northern lights. A trip we planned as a couple turned into some improvised double date.”

Connor opened his mouth, but François continued, not giving him space.

“When you decided to spend your time off in Canada. You insisted on Vancouver. Why? Because Hudson lives there. Because staying in Montreal with me wasn’t enough, right?”

He let out a short, humorless laugh.

“I bought a fucking apartment in Vancouver so you’d be with me and feel comfortable being close to your friend.”

“That’s not true,” Connor’s voice faltered slightly. “You said you wanted a change of scenery. I just suggested Vancouver, because—”

“It doesn’t matter how the idea came up,” François replied coldly. “What matters is why you chose it.”

Connor felt his chest tighten.

François took another step toward him.

“What about having clothes in your closet you don’t even know are yours or his?” he asked, sharp. “What about sleeping wrapped around him when you were already with me?”

He looked at him, waiting. Challenging him.

“Would you be okay with that? Would it be fine if I slept like that with someone else? If I wanted to be somewhere because that person was there? If I wanted to share every moment with them because doing it just with you wasn’t enough?”

Connor didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The silence was more eloquent than any defense. He wanted to tell him he had stopped sleeping with Hudson like that—at least that much he had stopped—but he couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come.

François exhaled through his nose, tired.

“Then no,” he said, his voice lower but firmer. “I haven’t asked you for anything extraordinary. Just to give me the place I’m supposed to have. But you say it doesn’t make sense. That it’s my insecurity.”

He looked at him straight on.

“I haven’t demanded anything more than the bare minimum. To be your boyfriend. Not your backup option. And damn it, Connor, I’ve told you that over and over again.”

The pause was brief, but definitive.

“And if it’s that hard for you to understand something that basic… then there’s nothing left to do.”

“What do you mean?” Connor asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly uncomfortable, like the floor wasn’t steady anymore. “Are you breaking up with me?”

François made an irritated sound and tossed the clothes he was holding back into the closet. The fabric fell in a disordered heap, as if it didn’t matter anymore either. He turned and faced him.

“No. I’m not breaking up with you,” he said, then hesitated. “But…”

He lifted his hands, open, in a gesture of surrender that Connor found unbearable.

“I mean it… I don’t know where this is headed.”

The blow was immediate. Blunt. Connor felt it in his chest before he processed the words, like someone had shoved his sternum inward. He exhaled slowly, incredulous, shaking his head faintly. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“That’s basically the same thing,” he replied. “If you don’t know where this is going, it’s because you simply don’t want to be in it.”

The wound opened fully then. Something heavy, crushing, settled in his chest, stealing his air. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands, pressing at his temples as if he could organize the noise in his head that way.

He stayed like that for a few seconds. Not many. Just enough not to fall apart in front of him.

Then he lifted his face and looked at François. His eyes were red, his jaw tight, his voice trembling beneath everything he was trying to hold together.

“Haven’t I shown you enough that you matter to me?” Connor said, his voice cracked with exhaustion. “I understand what you just said. If you put it like that… I can understand it. But you never said it that way before.”

He dragged a hand down his face, frustrated.

“François, all this time I thought the argument was about Hudson. but never about what was really underneath. Yeah, you mentioned it a thousand times, but never like this. You just said I didn’t turn to you, that I didn’t seek you out. You never told me the things that were actually hurting you.”

He fell silent for several seconds, mouth slightly open, searching for words that wouldn’t quite form.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not a fucking mind reader. I don’t read your mind. I can’t see your resentments if you don’t tell me. And if you don’t make me see what I’m doing wrong, I’m going to keep thinking I’m doing something right.”

“I don’t have to explain everything to you,” François replied coldly. “It’s common sense. You’re not a child.”

“No,” Connor shot back, shaking his head. “Because you and I started a relationship long after my friendship with Hudson. When you met me, this was already how things were. When we became boyfriends, my relationship with Hudson was exactly that… and you never said anything.”

He took a deep breath.

“I accept what I did wrong. I really do. And I understand I’m not a kid who needs to be spoon-fed. But a relationship is built on communication. I’m not here to learn how to decode what you keep to yourself. I can’t do that.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“That’s exactly what you’ve been doing.”

François’s expression tightened, annoyed.

“How is it that even when I lay out what I feel, when I tell you everything I’ve been thinking this whole time, it still ends up being my fault?”

“I’m not blaming you.”

“Yes, you are,” François shot back, his voice tightening. “Because it all boils down to me not saying anything.”

He lowered his gaze for a second, resigned. When he looked up again, there was more than anger there. There was disappointment.

“There are small things. Because you matter to me, I pay attention to them. The bathroom in my place has three sets of towels because I know you use one for your body and another for your hair. There’s always vodka with lime soda in my fridge because that’s what you like. When we go out, I don’t ask what you want to drink because I know it’s a Margarita.”

Connor looked at him as if each example were a fresh blow.

“I stopped buying lavender soap because you didn’t like it. I switched to coconut. I even skipped my sister’s birthday because my ex was going to be there, and I thought that might make you uncomfortable.”

He shrugged.

“You didn’t ask me to do any of that. I noticed. I thought about how you’d feel. How I’d feel if I were in your place. I thought—stupidly—that that’s how a relationship works. It’s not about stopping being yourself. It’s about bending on things that don’t take away your identity, but do give the other person security.”

Connor’s face tightened. It was too much information. Too much guilt.

“All this time I thought the problem was that I was spending too much time with Hudson.”

François shook his head immediately.

“It has nothing to do with Hudson.”

“Bullshit!” Connor shouted, jumping to his feet so abruptly that the mattress dipped beneath him. “Would you be doing this if it were with—”

François reacted without thinking. He closed the distance and covered Connor’s mouth with his hand before he could finish.

“Don’t yell,” he whispered urgently. “It’s funny, you know? You don’t want anyone hearing you moan when we fuck, but you don’t give a shit if they hear you arguing with me.”

Connor felt the hand like an invasion. And the words cut straight through him.

He shoved him hard in the chest and didn’t give himself time to regret it.

“Fuck you.”

He headed toward the bathroom, but François caught up and grabbed his arm. Tight. Too tight.

Connor felt ashamed. A dirty kind of shame. He was realizing, too late, that he’d taken the relationship for granted. That maybe he hadn’t been a good boyfriend. And he had no defense.

“We’re not done talking,” François said.

Connor stopped. He didn’t turn around immediately. When he did, his expression was empty of fight.

“Do you have anything else to say? Because I don’t. I get what I did wrong. And I have no fucking idea what I’m supposed to do now. I don’t understand how you kept this inside for a year and a half.”

“We’re talking about it now.”

Connor pulled his arm free with a sharp jerk.

“Putting that aside… do you believe me when I say I love you?”

His voice came out broken.

François closed his eyes for two seconds that felt endless.

“I believe you. I really do.”

But he didn’t sound convinced.

“But…”

Connor felt his heart crack.

“But?”

“It’s not that you don’t love me,” François continued. “You just don’t love me enough.”

The air left Connor’s lungs as if someone had punched him.

He nodded faintly. What was the point of trying to convince him? Could you convince someone how much you love them?

“What a shit way to start the day,” he muttered. “Have a good trip.”

And he turned before his face could betray him. He locked himself in the bathroom. Closed the door. The click of the lock was the only solid thing in the entire conversation.

And on the other side, the silence was louder than any shout.

***

Connor spent the entire ride to set with his head resting against the window, headphones on even though nothing was actually playing. The glass was cold against his temple. He’d taken the last seat in the van and left his bag on the seat beside him—a silent barrier so no one would try to sit there. He didn’t have the energy to talk. Not even to fake normalcy.

François had gone straight to set after the argument. He’d taken all his things. That hadn’t felt like a minor detail: Connor understood it the moment he came out of the bathroom and found the room empty. The suitcase was gone. So were his clothes, the scent he always left behind. François would finish his last take and then head to the airport.

Just like that.

Connor had stood there for a few seconds, staring at the empty space, as if something might make sense if he looked at it long enough. He hadn’t opened the door when Hudson knocked. He hadn’t answered when he asked if he could come in. He’d sat down on the bed, elbows on his thighs, staring at nothing, trying to process what had just happened.

Had he broken up with François?

Like that?

All at once, without a clear sentence, without real closure?

Out of nowhere?

The van jolted slightly as it took a curve and Connor blinked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hudson finally sit down in the seat beside him, moving the bag aside carefully. He silently appreciated that quiet presence—no questions, no pressure. Hudson didn’t say anything. And Connor knew it wasn’t out of ignorance. Quite the opposite. Maybe he hadn’t heard every word, but some of the shouting had carried through the walls.

When they finally arrived, Connor stepped out of the van without really remembering the ride. He knew there’d been traffic. That someone had braked suddenly at some point. That he’d given the driver an automatic “thank you.” But it all felt distant, like he’d been watching his own life from the outside.

Hudson got out behind him, helped lift his bag, but said nothing, and Connor was quietly grateful for it. Hudson didn’t follow him to the dressing room either.

The set looked the same as always: technicians adjusting lights, cables snaking across the floor, someone laughing too loudly near catering. The smell of reheated coffee mixed with hairspray and powder makeup. It was an environment he knew by heart. A place where he knew exactly how to behave, which version of himself to present.

On the outside, nothing had changed.

On the inside, something had shifted with uncomfortable clarity.

He walked through it all with small nods of greeting, keeping pace, keeping up the public persona. Professional. Functional. As if he hadn’t just been told that the man he loved didn’t feel loved enough.

You just don’t love me enough.

The sentence hadn’t been shouted. It hadn’t been dramatic. It had been worse: calm.

He entered his dressing room and closed the door carefully, as if even the click of it might push him over the edge. He dropped into the chair in front of the illuminated mirror. The white light highlighted every shadow under his eyes, every line of exhaustion that hadn’t been there weeks ago.

He looked at himself.

He wondered when he’d started assuming that love was enough.

He loved François. He had no doubt about that. He loved him when they laughed together. He loved him in bed. He loved the way he searched for him in a crowded room. He loved him in desire and in routine. He loved him in the tangible things.

But loving wasn’t the same as prioritizing.

The conversation from that morning began to reconstruct itself in his mind, this time without the anger that had shielded him earlier. The separate towels in the bathroom. The vodka with lime soda always in the fridge. The coconut soap replacing the lavender. Skipping his sister’s birthday because he’d thought about how Connor might feel.

Details.

At the time, Connor would have called them details. Now he understood they were choices.

He’d never asked for those things. François was right. He’d never demanded them. He’d done them because he thought that’s how a relationship worked: adjust what doesn’t break you to protect what does matter.

Connor tried to remember what he had adjusted. Beyond the superficial. Beyond rearranging plans around shared commitments.

Had he given up anything real? Had he changed anything fundamental in his dynamic with Hudson to protect the relationship?

The answer didn’t come immediately. But the discomfort did.

He had expected François to understand. To accept it. To adapt to something that, for Connor, felt natural and unquestionable. His friendship with Hudson had never been negotiable to him, and he had never stopped to ask himself whether the way he lived it might feel like an intrusion from the outside.

It wasn’t just the time they spent together. It was the place he occupied.

The comparison that had offended him so much earlier came back with a different weight. Not wanting anyone to hear him fuck, but not caring if they heard him argue. In the moment, it had sounded absurd. Now he understood François hadn’t been talking about the act. He’d been talking about care.

Connor protected sexual intimacy with almost obsessive rigidity. But he hadn’t protected the emotional intimacy of his relationship with the same vigilance. He’d argued in front of third parties. He’d allowed Hudson to orbit spaces that should have been exclusive.

 He’d reduced his partner’s discomfort to insecurity, when in reality it had been displacement. And that hurt to admit. Not because it made him a monster. But because it made him responsible.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the vanity. He looked at himself as if expecting to see something different reflected back. There were no external signs of the conversation that had broken something between them. Just his usual face, ready to be made up, ready to perform.

Maybe he hadn’t been a bad boyfriend. But he hadn’t been the one François needed, either.

He had loved from a place of comfort. From the certainty that if something didn’t feel wrong to him, then it wasn’t wrong at all. And when François tried to say it, Connor heard it as an attack, not as a wound.

For the first time, he didn’t feel the urge to defend himself. He felt ashamed.

Not a dramatic shame. Not paralyzing guilt. A quieter one. The kind that comes from realizing someone has been asking you for emotional space while you were too busy justifying yourself to notice.

The conversation with Hudson surfaced then, with uncomfortable clarity.

“Don’t you think we’ve developed some kind of emotional dependency on each other?”

At the time, Connor had felt attacked. He’d interpreted the word dependency as an accusation, as if it implied something he didn’t want to consider. He’d thought about jealousy. About misunderstandings. About exaggeration.

But now, sitting in front of the mirror, the word didn’t sound exaggerated.

It sounded accurate.

Hudson had listed facts: anxiety when there were no messages, interpreting distance as rejection, social lives revolving too much around each other, disproportionate physical reactions after a fight.

Connor remembered the plane. The migraine. The nausea. The hollow feeling when they argued and the almost physical euphoria when they reconciled.

That wasn’t just intense affection. It was emotional regulation. And admitting that made his chest tighten.

Because if his stability depended that heavily on Hudson, then François wasn’t competing against a simple friendship. He was competing against the axis around which Connor had learned to balance himself.

François hadn’t exploded out of shallow jealousy. He’d exploded because he’d spent a long time feeling like he occupied an invisible second place. Not in words—but in practice. In decisions. In unspoken priorities. In automatic reflexes.

Connor always went to Hudson first. Always processed things with him first. Always needed his validation, his presence, his closeness to feel centered.

And when Hudson himself suggested that maybe it wasn’t entirely healthy, Connor had been furious.

Not because it wasn’t true. But because it was. The truth always hurts.

It scared him to imagine his life with less immediate access to that stability. It scared him to question something that had always been unquestionable. And that fear had consequences.

François didn’t want to erase Hudson. Connor could see that more clearly now. He wanted space to exist without feeling like a third party in something that was supposed to be between two. He wanted his place not to be constantly shared, negotiated, or conditioned by another permanent emotional presence.

Connor lowered his gaze to his hands resting on the vanity.

He hadn’t been cruel on purpose. He hadn’t betrayed anyone. He hadn’t lied. But he had been comfortable.

He had assumed love would be enough without asking himself whether he was willing to rearrange priorities to sustain it.

Maybe it wasn’t that he didn’t love François enough. Maybe he just wasn’t willing to move the center of gravity of his life. And for the first time, François’s words stopped sounding unfair.

The dressing room door opened softly and Sophie peeked her head in before stepping fully inside. She wore a shy, almost careful smile as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, as if she didn’t want to intrude more than necessary.

“Hey, handsome,” she said, walking over and giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze—warm, familiar.

“Hey, beautiful,” Connor replied.

The smile that touched his lips was real. Not wide, not exaggerated, but genuine. For a second, the weight in his chest eased slightly.

“Ready?” Sophie asked, leaning in to touch one of his curls with the tip of her finger, still perfectly styled.

Connor nodded lightly, letting the gesture speak for him.

“I won’t be able to watch today’s scene,” she added, making a small pout. “My flight leaves this afternoon.”

The disappointment wasn’t theatrical. It was sincere—like someone who truly wanted to stay a little longer.

“Another time,” Connor said, with a calm he didn’t entirely feel yet, but was willing to hold.

Sophie smiled back and squeezed his shoulder once more before letting go.

“We’ll see each other in Montreal, actually. I’ve got a few scenes,” she said, lifting her shoulders with mock pride. “Jacob decided to give me more lines than Rachel did.”

Connor’s smile widened.

“I’ll love seeing you,” he said.

Sophie took a seat in the chair beside him once the stylist stepped out, leaving the space wrapped in a more intimate silence.

Connor didn’t say anything. He just watched her out of the corner of his eye, studying her expresión. He’d learned to recognize that exact second when someone decides to speak.

Sophie inhaled, then looked at him directly.

“Hey… we should do something together,” she said, pointing a finger at both their chests. “Something crazy. We’ve never really gone out like that. Let’s grab a drink. In Montreal, next time. The three of us.”

The sentence hit harder than he expected.

Connor felt a sharp pinch in his chest. Not overwhelming—but enough to leave him without an immediate response.

Because he had no idea whether that three was still a valid equation.

He didn’t know if his relationship with François was continuing, on pause, or already broken without anyone daring to say it out loud.

He didn’t answer right away. And it must have shown.

Sophie frowned slightly, like she’d caught something off about his expression. Connor didn’t know what his face was giving away from the outside, but whatever it was, it was enough for her to correct herself quickly.

“Hudson, you and me,” she clarified immediately, softening her tone. “The three of us.”

She smiled, trying to lighten the moment, as if nothing important had just happened.

Connor nodded slowly, offering a smile that was harder to hold this time. He didn’t say anything. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he didn’t know what to say when he wasn’t even sure where exactly he was standing.

Us wasn’t as simple as it used to be.

***

Hudson walked down the hallway that led to that day’s set, mentally going over the conversation he still needed to have with Jacob. The day before, Jacob had casually mentioned the idea of adjusting the schedule for a trip to Montreal—a meeting with part of the team about filming the Heated Rivalry prequel. He hadn’t gone into detail then; he’d just asked Hudson to find him the next day before shooting so he could explain everything properly.

Jacob had even suggested he bring Connor along, that the three of them talk together. But Hudson had chosen not to. He wanted to give him some space. Connor didn’t look okay, and it didn’t take exceptional perception to notice it. He was there, showing up, being professional as always—but something in him was dimmed. And he still had to work.

Hudson didn’t want to add more weight to that.

Though, if he was honest, he knew Connor wouldn’t mind if it was work-related. He never did.

Hudson understood that. Maybe more than he’d like to admit. Maybe more than anyone else right now. Because without meaning to, they were now two people tangled up in unresolved issues. Two people dragging around half-finished conversations and silences heavier than they should’ve been.

That morning, he’d heard the argument with François.

Or rather, he hadn’t really heard it. He hadn’t caught full words or complete sentences. He didn’t know exactly what was being said. He’d just picked up the voices. Fragments. Tones—irritated, tense—rising and falling like they were both standing at the edge of something neither of them wanted to cross.

And that had been enough.

Hudson had stood still for a few seconds on the other side of the wall, not entirely sure what to do. He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to become a witness to something that intimate, that personal. So he’d left the apartment quietly, almost on tiptoe, trying not to make noise so he wouldn’t be noticed.

Not because he was doing anything wrong.

But because he didn’t feel comfortable hovering in the shadows of a couple’s argument—whatever that had been.

As he walked toward the set, he thought about Connor. About how rigid he could be with himself. About how hard it was for him to accept something wasn’t working when there was still love involved. And he wondered—without daring to say it out loud—whether this time things had reached a point of no return.

Hudson didn’t have answers.

Just that bitter feeling of recognizing someone else’s exhaustion because it looked too much like his own. And that, more than any half-heard argument, was what unsettled him.

On top of that, he’d received a message from Elena that morning. Brief. Direct. CAA wanted to meet once more. Nothing urgent—but not something that could simply be ignored either. Hudson would have to find the right moment to bring it up with Connor, because it wasn’t as simple as saying no and moving on.

The situation between them had been left in an uncomfortable limbo, but Elena had assured him she, Brad, and Nick were working on it. That gave him some peace of mind. He didn’t feel like they were drifting or improvising major decisions.

Hudson knew that at least in that regard, they were in good hands.

He and Connor.

Hudson spotted Jacob at the end of the hallway.

He was with François.

Jacob was holding what looked like a folder full of documents, pointing at certain pages while he spoke. François nodded occasionally, leaning in slightly to look closer, focused.

Hudson instinctively slowed his pace and decided to hang back a few feet. He didn’t want to interrupt. He leaned against the wall, pretending to check his phone, waiting for them to finish before approaching calmly.

François was the first to notice him.

He looked up, and his eyes locked with Hudson’s. The hallway seemed to narrow instantly. They held each other’s gaze for what felt like an eternity—though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. No gestures. No greetings. No clear expression. Just that uncomfortable pause, heavy with unspoken things.

Jacob followed François’s line of sight and spotted him too.

“There you are,” he said, breaking the moment. “Come over.”

Hudson straightened and walked toward them.

“Morning,” he said neutrally, slipping his phone into his pocket.

Jacob closed the folder as soon as Hudson reached them.

“We were just talking about the schedule adjustment,” he explained. “Montreal’s moving up a week from the original date. The meeting with the creative team will be in person. They want both of you there.”

Hudson nodded automatically.

“How tight is the calendar?” he asked, focusing on Jacob— even though it was impossible not to be aware of François beside him.

“It can be moved,” Jacob replied. “But I need confirmation today.”

A brief silence followed.

François stepped in then, his professional tone almost too polished.

“My flight leaves in a few hours. I’ll be in Montreal regardless.”

“Good,” Jacob said, then looked at Hudson. “Do you think Connor…?” His gaze shifted between Hudson and François, unsure who to direct the question to.

“I’ll tell him,” Hudson said quickly. “We’ll talk to our agents about adjusting the schedule.”

Jacob nodded and reopened the folder. He pointed out a few more items, talked about budget, logistics, filming timelines. Hudson listened, answered when necessary. Professional. Efficient.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Jacob said, snapping the folder shut when he finished. “See you on set in ten.”

His footsteps faded down the hallway, muffled by the industrial carpet. The noise from the technical crew that had filled the space moments earlier seemed to dissolve too. Suddenly, the corridor felt narrower. Quieter.

Hudson and François stood facing each other without moving.

François adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder—an unnecessary gesture that betrayed discomfort. He glanced at a point behind Hudson, then at the floor, then back at him. He didn’t speak.

Neither did Hudson.

He could hear his own breathing too clearly. He forced himself not to cross his arms, not to adopt a defensive stance. He didn’t want this to look like a confrontation. But he couldn’t pretend everything was normal either.

François’s eyes finally settled on his.

He looked exhausted. His gaze carried a kind of silent assessment—like he was measuring how much Hudson knew—or suspected.

The air between them felt heavy.

Hudson swallowed. He had the sense that if he didn’t speak now, he never would.

“Can I ask you something?” he said at last, quietly—almost like he was afraid the hallway itself might be listening.

François let out a breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. More like a brief release of contained irritation.

“What do you want?”

***

Connor lay stretched out on the empty bed. Alone.

The darkness filled the room in a dense, almost tangible way, and sleep wouldn’t come. He turned over again, irritated, and ended up pulling his T-shirt off, muttering that the fabric felt like it was burning his skin, that it was uncomfortable, that there was no way he could sleep like that. He clung to that simple, physical explanation. He refused to blame it on the other thing. On the persistent feeling that François seemed ready to disappear once again.

They had barely crossed paths that morning on set. No real greeting. A glance that didn’t hold. François had ignored him with an ease that hurt more than Connor cared to examine.

Still, he had found a moment to approach him before he left. He swallowed his pride, shoved it down into his chest, and went to François’s dressing room just as he was getting ready to head to the airport. The scene had been quick. Cold. It led nowhere. François had only said he had to go.

Nothing more.

He didn’t say we’ll talk later.

He didn’t say I’ll call you.

He didn’t say I’ll text you.

Nothing.

So, in theory, Connor had no reason to be staring at his phone every few minutes, waiting for a sign—anything at all. A dry message. A missed call. The smallest confirmation that they still existed in the same reality.

But he did it anyway.

The phone rested on the nightstand. The dark screen seemed to stare back at him, mocking. Connor picked it up, unlocked it, checked notifications he’d already seen.

Nothing.

He set it down again.

He rolled onto his back, draping his arm over his eyes.

It wasn’t the first time.

It wasn’t new.

And still, every time, it hurt differently.

The silence of the room settled in his chest.. Not like a blow, but like something slowly taking up space. Connor closed his eyes—not to sleep, but to avoid looking at the exact spot where François should have been… and wasn’t.

He felt guilty.

The feeling wasn’t dramatic or explosive. It was constant. Sticky. Like a thin layer that wouldn’t wash off, no matter how hard he tried to distract himself. But he was forcing himself not to spiral back into the same thoughts.

The same thought had been spinning in his head all day, like a wheel that never stopped turning. Every attempt at distraction led him back to the same place. The same sentences. The same gestures. The same final look.

He was exhausted from listening to himself.

He brought both hands to his face and gave himself a couple of sharp slaps across the cheeks, as if the sting might rearrange something in his head. The sound echoed hollow in the room. Useless.

He took a deep breath.

“Enough,” he muttered to himself, low, almost like an order.

He got up from the bed and started pacing, feeling the tension built up in his shoulders. His body didn’t know what to do with the nervous energy running down his arms. He dragged his hands through his hair, pushed it back, let it fall again.

He didn’t want to keep ruminating. Didn’t want to keep replaying every word as if he could rewrite it.

The guilt was there, yes.

But staying trapped in it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t make the phone vibrate. It wouldn’t undo what had already been said.

He stopped in front of the window, bracing his hands against the frame. Outside, the city kept moving. Cars passing. Traffic lights changing. The world hadn’t stopped.

Only he had.

He closed his eyes a second longer than necessary and breathed again. Deep inhale. Slow exhale.

Then he let himself fall back onto the bed, settling on his back, arms spread at his sides as if surrendering completely to exhaustion. He closed his eyes with the firm intention of sleeping this time—of forcing his body to shut down even if his mind stayed lit.

He tried to empty his thoughts. Literally blank. No images. No memories. No repeating phrases. Just darkness.

It didn’t work.

The harder he tried to empty his mind, the louder it became. Disordered thoughts. Loose sensations. Scenes that didn’t wait for permission.

He exhaled in frustration.

So he tried the opposite.

If he couldn’t silence his mind, maybe he could steer it. Force himself to think about things that should, in theory, make him feel good. Safe memories. Simple moments. Something untouched by guilt or arguments.

He searched his memory the way you dig through a cluttered drawer, trying to find something intact.

He thought about his childhood, lying on the floor watching The Wizard of Oz. About the days he followed his parents’ bodybuilding competitions. About how he and Tyler used to compete, laughing, lifting stale bags of bread like they were real weights, swearing that one day they’d do it for real.

He thought about when he started making chaotic tracks in Ableton—noisy, imperfect music, not caring whether it made sense to anyone else. About walks in the woods… with Hudson.

Hudson.

Hudson.

Hudson.

Connor sat up abruptly in bed when memories of him flooded his head without warning. It was as if his mind had been waiting for that name. As if the memories of Hudson had been bouncing eagerly in the background, waiting to be noticed.

Hudson’s smile came first. Then the way he wrinkled his nose when he focused on something. The lines at the corners of his eyes when he truly smiled.

Hudson was his anchor. The person who made difficult things feel lighter, less final. He had always been there. On good days, on bad ones, on the days when Connor didn’t even know how to explain himself to himself.

He hadn’t wanted to think too much about that. Maybe because, deep down, he felt that doing so was a kind of betrayal toward François. Maybe because he was afraid of interpreting things the wrong way and causing the only stable thing in his life to collapse.

He remembered the video he’d watched the last time. Hudson’s bright eyes. The way he smiled. The way he looked at him.

And he understood—with a clarity that made his stomach twist—that he looked at Hudson the exact same way.

He rubbed his face hard until his skin burned, as if pain could erase the thought. It didn’t.

And he couldn’t help thinking about what he’d felt during the kissing scene. About how his body had reacted before he could name it. About how Hudson’s lips tasted different. He didn’t know if it was just because he’d forgotten that taste after so long, or if it was something else. The way Hudson had opened his mouth, unhurried, letting him in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Connor let out a long, forced breath, pushing the thoughts away. He was going down the wrong path. He knew it. He couldn’t let himself go there. Not with Hudson.

His heart suddenly started racing. He pressed a hand against his chest as if he could turn down the volume of what he was feeling.

Calm down, he told himself.

He was too sensitive. Too vulnerable. And as always, Hudson was the person who gave him peace—even when he wasn’t physically there.

Since the day they’d met, not once had Connor felt like he needed to pretend to be someone else around him. With Hudson, everything was easy. Natural. Like they operated on the same wavelength. They liked the same things, laughed at the same stupid shit, and both loved making fools of themselves without shame.

They could stay up late watching ridiculous videos without saying a word. Send each other absurd voice notes just to make the other laugh. Walk for hours without a destination and end up talking about nothing and everything at the same time. They could sit together in silence without it being uncomfortable. They could see each other wrecked and not demand explanations.

Connor could lean on Hudson without fear. Just like Hudson leaned on him. He could allow himself not to be okay. To be irritable, tired, lost. Hudson never judged him for it. Never tried to fix him or minimize it. He was just there. Solid. Present.

After all, Hudson was the only stable and solid thing he had in his life.

Connor didn’t think it through. He knew he wasn’t going to sleep. Not like this. He got out of bed almost on instinct, like his body had made the decision before he had, and walked quietly down the hallway to Hudson’s room. He saw the light under the door was off; he was probably asleep.

He didn’t knock.

He didn’t want to wake him.

He opened the door carefully, slowly, making sure not to make any unnecessary noise.

Hudson was asleep. His body rested on its side, legs slightly bent beneath a thin cotton sheet. One arm was tucked under the pillow; the other lay loose across his abdomen. Connor stood there for a few seconds, caught in the quiet of it, silently debating whether to turn around or keep going.

He didn’t get to decide. His body moved for him.

He approached the left side of the bed and slipped into the empty space with extreme care, moving slowly so he wouldn’t wake him. He lifted the sheet slightly and slid under it, pulling it up to his hips, sharing the warmth. Then he moved closer and gently wrapped his arm around Hudson’s waist, like he had done so many times before.

Hudson startled at first. He turned abruptly at the contact, half asleep, but Connor reacted quickly, tightening his arms around him and pulling him in.

Hudson’s bare back settled against Connor’s bare chest.

Through the haze of sleep, Hudson understood who it was. The tension left him immediately. He stopped resisting, tilted his head forward just enough to give space, and Connor’s face fit naturally into the curve at the back of his neck. Hudson adjusted without thinking, aligning himself with a precision that needed no explanation.

Like a puzzle piece finding its match.

“What are you doing?” Hudson murmured, his voice rough and thick with sleep, not fully moving.

“I can’t sleep,” Connor answered against his neck.

Hudson’s scent hit him immediately, as it always did. It was a refuge. Connor had never quite been able to explain it. It wasn’t just soap or clean skin; it was something deeper—a soft blend of sandalwood and vetiver that seemed to cling to him. Everything about Hudson smelled good. Even his unwashed hair.

Connor rested his forehead against the back of his neck and breathed in deeply. Once. Then again. As if he could sort out what was inside him just by inhaling.

Hudson moved slowly, still half asleep. He searched for Connor’s hand blindly, found it without difficulty, laced their fingers together and guided their joined hands to the center of his abdomen, leaving them there—steady, calm. An automatic gesture. Intimate in its simplicity.

“Do you want to talk?” Hudson asked, not changing position, his voice slightly more awake now.

Connor shook his head.

The movement was minimal, but enough for his nose to brush against the exposed skin of Hudson’s neck. Hudson’s body tensed faintly—an involuntary reflex, brief. Connor didn’t notice. He was too focused on the relief of being there. Of not being alone.

“I missed you.”

The words came from Connor’s chest before he could stop them. He missed Hudson. He missed his closeness, his constant presence, the way sleeping like this—pressed together, without distance—brought him a measure of calm. They had done this many times before. It wasn’t new. It had never been strange between them.

What had changed was Connor.

He had stopped showing up like this in Hudson’s hotel rooms after someone made a comment in an interview or somewhere public. He couldn’t remember exactly when or who had said it, but François had gotten angry. And that had been enough.

Connor thought about texting François saying, “Look, yes, I stopped doing that thing that upset you.”

Connor pressed his lips together, annoyed with himself. He didn’t want to think about that. Maybe he was being unfair. François had a right to feel uncomfortable. If François slept spooning a friend…

No.

He cut the thought off sharply.

What a selfish bastard, he told himself silently.

Because there he was, seeking comfort in the very place that had caused so many arguments. Because it hurt to imagine François doing the same, yet he still allowed himself to be there, holding Hudson as if nothing had changed.

The contradiction weighed heavily in his chest.

Hudson seemed to sense the sudden tension in Connor’s body. He turned carefully until they were face to face, just as Connor adjusted his head on the pillow they were now sharing. For a second, they looked at each other without speaking.

Hudson lifted his hand and brushed his thumb slowly across Connor’s cheek, as if making sure he was really there.

Connor closed his eyes and let himself be comforted.

Just for a few seconds.

The touch was soft, but it unraveled him more than he understood.

“I missed you too,” Hudson murmured.

Connor opened his eyes.

Hudson’s hand was still on his face, holding him with a natural ease that hurt. The faint moonlight filtered through the window—Hudson hadn’t pulled the blackout curtain down—and gave his eyes a damp, almost vulnerable shine.

“When did everything get so complicated?” Connor whispered, not looking away.

Hudson resumed the slow stroke of his thumb, tracing lightly beneath Connor’s eye.

“Since we kept doing things like this,” he answered calmly, “even after we had that talk about boundaries.”

Connor let out a low laugh, devoid of real humor. Hudson echoed it, barely.

“I don’t want anyone telling me what I can and can’t do with you,” Connor said quietly. “But I’m also scared of hurting the people I love… and who love me.”

“I know.”

And that was exactly it.

Connor knew Hudson wasn’t okay with Kiley either. He could sense it in the way he avoided certain topics, in the tiredness that sometimes slipped into his gaze. It was as if the universe—the same one that had thrown them together like two people who recognized each other too quickly—had decided to place them at the same breaking point at the same time.

Two relationships wobbling.

Two unfinished conversations.

Two similar fears.

Connor realized he had gone too quiet. Not because he had nothing to say, but because everything seemed to lose weight when Hudson looked at him like that.

He watched the moonlight sharpen the lines of Hudson’s face. The bridge of his nose. The soft shadow beneath his cheekbones. The way his lashes cast a nearly invisible trace against his skin. Hudson had always been handsome, but it wasn’t just that. It was how open—almost transparent—his expression became when they were alone.

Connor felt something in his head go too far. It wasn’t a clear thought. It was a sensation. His chest tightened suddenly. He pulled back slightly, as if the contact had begun to burn.

“We’re doing this wrong,” he said abruptly, his voice more strained than he expected. “No—I mean, I… I’m doing this wrong.”

Hudson blinked, confused. Connor swallowed.

“You asked for boundaries,” he added. “And I keep showing up here in the middle of the night, climbing into your bed like nothing changed. That’s not respecting them.” He sighed. “And we both have this shit going on with our relationships that—”

He cut himself off. He was accusing himself, yet still repeating the same pattern, dragging Hudson into it with him. He pushed himself up slightly, ready to get out of bed.

“Connie…”

“I should go.”

The mattress shifted as he tried to move away, but he didn’t make it even a second further. Hudson grabbed his arm. Not roughly, but firmly.

Connor turned his head, surprised, and in the same motion Hudson pulled him back, forcing him to lie down again. He didn’t give him time to react.

Hudson drew him against his bare chest, wrapping his arms around him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Connor’s face pressed against warm skin, right over his heart.

Hudson slid a hand into his hair and began stroking it slowly.

“No,” he murmured, his voice low and more awake now. “Stay. Stay tonight. Just tonight.” It sounded like a plea.

Connor went still for a few seconds.

He wanted to argue. To say it wasn’t right. That this was exactly what they had said they wouldn’t do. That seeking comfort like this, at this hour, in this room… was crossing the line.

But his body didn’t cooperate.

His hands curled against Hudson’s torso. Not tight. Just enough to anchor himself. Then he wrapped an arm around Hudson’s waist, closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply, trying to organize the chaos that had exploded in his chest minutes earlier.

He heard a heartbeat beneath his ear.

Then another. Fast.

Connor didn’t know if it was his or Hudson’s.

Chapter End Notes

Well, I have a few things to say:

1. I’m sorry you’ve had to read so many arguments back to back. It can be exhausting, I know — but this was necessary.

2. We’re getting close (I think maybe in the next chapter? I’m not even sure if it’ll fit there yet) to another big moment in the story.

3. This chapter was actually ready yesterday, but I ended up rewriting a few parts after sleeping on it. When I woke up, there were things I just didn’t like anymore, haha. I’m saying this in case I accidentally repeated something in the development — I honestly might not have noticed after editing it so many times.

And that’s it. I hope you like it.
Thank you for reading. 💛

Chapter 11: Unspoken

Chapter Notes

Hello, hello. First time I’ve taken this long to update — I’m sorry about that. A few things:

1. This chapter is a bit longer than the previous ones, as a little compensation.

2. This isn’t the chapter with the other big moment in the story. I couldn’t quite fit it in here, but it will definitely be in the next one.

3. I’ll leave the other things I want to say at the end.

Connor’s eyes snapped open when the crash tore through the room.

Something had shattered on the floor with a sharp crack, followed by a string of muffled curses he recognized instantly. Hudson’s voice, irritated, muttering under his breath from the living room.

It took him a second to orient himself. The light slipping through the gap in the curtain hit his heavy eyelids. Sleep hadn’t fully left him; it clung to his body like a heavy film.

He sat up clumsily, still tangled in the sheet. When he tried to stand, the fabric twisted around his legs and nearly made him stumble. He shoved it aside impatiently, letting it fall to the floor as he moved toward the door.

He opened it with his eyes half-closed, the hallway light stabbing into his pupils. He dragged both hands over his face, trying to shake off the sleep and the grit blurring his vision.

“Sorry,” Hudson called from the living room, still not looking at him. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Connor blinked several times, trying to focus.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Sorry,” Hudson repeated, softer this time.

When Connor’s vision finally cleared, he saw him. Hudson was crouched on the living room floor, carefully picking up the pieces of what had once been a coffee mug. Dark liquid had spread across the floor in an uneven pool.

Connor stepped forward, still groggy, and nearly lost his footing. He swayed to one side, arms lifting awkwardly at his waist in a clumsy reflex to steady himself. He stayed still for a few seconds until the dizziness passed, then moved more carefully.

He crouched beside Hudson without saying anything and began gathering the larger ceramic fragments.

“Go wash up,” Hudson said, giving him two soft pats on the arm. “I’ve got it.”

Connor didn’t answer right away.

He was still half-asleep, but not enough to miss that something was off. Hudson was avoiding his gaze. His attention was exaggeratedly fixed on the floor, on the shards, on anything but Connor’s eyes.

Connor’s heart started racing.

The memory hit him without warning: the darkness of the room, his body pressed against Hudson’s, the shared warmth under the sheet. And above all, the clear, undeniable sensation of his own pulse pounding wildly against his friend’s bare torso.

The panic came late.

Had Hudson felt it?

The thought tightened his chest. Last night, in the middle of exhaustion and the need for comfort, he hadn’t thought too much. He’d just needed closeness. Needed something solid to anchor him. But now, more awake and carrying other tensions in his body, the scene replayed with unsettling clarity.

How the hell was he supposed to explain something like that when he didn’t even fully understand why he’d reacted that way?

He tried to rationalize it.

It had been a hard night. He’d been vulnerable. He couldn’t sleep. Your body reacts when you’re on edge. Your heart races. It doesn’t mean anything.

Did it?

He ran his tongue over his lower lip, nervous. Maybe it had made Hudson uncomfortable. Maybe it had been too much. He’d crossed a line, crawling into his bed at that hour. Seeking him out like that. Leaning on him as if he were the only thing keeping everything in place.

But then he remembered something that steadied him—barely. Hudson hadn’t pushed him away. He hadn’t rejected him. If anything, he’d been the one to hold him tighter. To pull him against his chest. To ask him, voice still rough with sleep, to stay.

Stay. Stay tonight. Just tonight.

The memory gave him a flicker of relief. Maybe he had crossed a line. But it hadn’t been one-sided. Hudson had allowed it. Hudson had held him too.

Connor set down the shard he was holding and, without overthinking it, reached for Hudson’s chin. He caught Hudson’s chin and tipped it up.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Hudson replied too quickly.

He tried to turn his face away, but Connor tightened his fingers just enough—not to hurt him, just enough to keep him from slipping out of his hold.

“Are you seriously lying to me first thing in the morning?”

Hudson let out a short, humorless huff.

“Go wash up.”

He stood before Connor could press further and walked into the kitchen with the broken pieces in his hand. He dropped them into the sink harder than necessary.

Connor stayed on his knees for another second, watching him. Then he stood.

“Huddy,” Connor called again, this time lower, steadier. “Are you okay?”

It wasn’t just any question.

Between them, a repeated are you okay? wasn’t pressure. It wasn’t invasive insistence. It was a code. An open door with no obligation to walk through it. It meant: I’m here. It meant: you can tell me whatever you want… even if you don’t know how to say it. Even if it’s something you think I don’t want to hear.

And almost always, that was the key.

Hudson stopped moving his hands under the running water. He stood there for a few seconds, his back slightly hunched, as if deciding whether this was worth talking about right now.

Finally, he turned off the faucet.

Connor’s heart skipped.

“Elena called,” Hudson said, still not looking at him. “You know… CAA wants to meet with us again.”

Connor blinked, processing the information as the last of the sleep faded from his head. Was that it? Not about him crawling into his bed in the middle of the night?

The relief he felt at the possibility that it wasn’t about that was more comforting than he expected. So much so that he almost forgot something important. Anything involving CAA was far from good news.

“I know,” he said, running a hand through his hair and scratching his scalp harder than necessary. “I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you Natalie called me. I was looking for you on set, but I couldn’t find you, and then… well, I forgot.”

Hudson nodded slightly. There was no reproach in the gesture, but there was contained tension.

Connor took another step toward the kitchen.

“Is it that bad?” he asked. “Is that all?”

Hudson looked at him then, and Connor felt like he’d been slapped when Hudson smiled.

Because it wasn’t real.

He was still pretending. And that could only mean there was something else.

The memory that Hudson might have felt something in Connor’s body last night came back, suffocating.

“No,” Hudson said quickly. “It’s just that… she said Natalie and Steven are flying to Montreal to meet us there. They have a proposal.”

Connor frowned.

“What?”

Hudson held his gaze and nodded slowly.

Connor knew it couldn’t be nothing if they were the ones making the trip. Not when the logical thing would’ve been to wait for Connor and Hudson to fly to Vancouver. And they couldn’t do that now—not with their schedules always packed. If CAA was coming to Montreal, it meant they wanted to make sure they had them face-to-face.

A weight settled in Connor’s stomach as he studied Hudson’s expression. Yeah. He couldn’t think of anything that justified that level of urgency from Steven and Natalie. Not after the last meeting. Not after the no they had already given.

But something in Connor’s chest told him that wasn’t all.

He knew Hudson well enough to read his silences. And there was something—something in the way Hudson was looking at him—that screamed he wasn’t telling him everything.

Was it a different proposal?

Or was it the same thing, just with more pressure?

Connor’s mind began filling in the blanks with increasingly unsettling scenarios. If it was the same thing… what would they take this time? Another campaign? A contract already signed? Something they didn’t even know was at stake yet?

And then a worse thought slipped in without permission.

What if they had already taken something—and Hudson didn’t know how to tell him?

His stomach tightened again.

And as if his mind needed to throw more fuel on the fire, another thought surfaced—more intimate, more uncomfortable.

Was it about last night after all?

Was Hudson uncomfortable with him?

The sequence was fast, irrational—but enough to make his chest pound harder.

“I can go alone this time,” Hudson said suddenly, almost bulldozing the silence.

Connor frowned.

“No,” he shot back immediately, as if the very idea were absurd. “I’m not leaving you alone with those fucking snakes.”

Hudson stepped closer. There was something urgent in the way he held Connor’s gaze.

“I want to do it,” he insisted, faster now. “I’ll talk to them and I’ll—”

Connor lifted a hand and placed it on his shoulder once he was close enough.

“No, Huddy,” he said firmly. “It’s not negotiable.”

Connor’s phone started vibrating from the bedroom at that exact moment, the dry buzz against the wooden nightstand cutting through the air like a gunshot.

For a split second, his heart jolted violently. It could be him.

He didn’t think. He moved almost on instinct toward the hallway, but Hudson’s hand closed firmly around his wrist, jerking him to a stop. Connor turned, confused. And then he saw it. That expression. The same look as before—tense, contained. Like Hudson knew something Connor hadn’t fully processed yet.

His stomach dropped.

Connor glanced toward the bedroom, the phone still buzzing insistently. Then he looked back at Hudson. He didn’t try to pull away right away.

“What?” he asked, and this time there was irritation in his voice. Not at Hudson—but at the constant sense that he was missing something.

Hudson shook his head, but didn’t release his wrist. His grip tightened slightly.

“Elena called.”

“You already said that,” Connor cut in, impatient.

Hudson opened his mouth as if he were going to speak, but the words didn’t come. They got stuck in his throat. The tension in his jaw gave him away.

The phone vibrated again, insistent, the sharp buzz repeating against the wood like a ticking clock counting down.

Connor tried to pull free to head toward the bedroom, but before he could take a step, Hudson’s voice stopped him.

“Did you talk to him?”

Connor’s body froze, as if someone had slammed on the brakes. He turned slowly, still tingling from Hudson’s grip, confusion written all over his face.

“François?” he asked, even though he knew perfectly well that’s who Hudson meant.

Hudson nodded once.

“No, you know he and I—”

“No,” Hudson interrupted, controlled but firm. “Did you talk to him about CAA? I told you to ask him.”

His voice was measured, quiet—but tight with tension. As if every word were being placed carefully to avoid setting off an explosion. Connor recognized that tone instantly. It was the one Hudson used when he felt like he was walking on fragile ground.

The last time they’d touched that subject, Connor had shut down. He’d gotten defensive. He’d defended François as if even questioning him was a betrayal.

Hudson finally let go of his wrist, and Connor’s arm dropped to his side with a strange weight, as if it didn’t fully belong to him anymore.

“He didn’t tell me,” Connor whispered, more to himself than to Hudson.

The words sounded weak.

“I told you to ask him.”

This time, the words came out harsher than Hudson intended. He hadn’t meant them to sound like an accusation—but tension sharpened them.

Connor looked up and saw the expression on Hudson’s face.

It wasn’t anger. It was fear. Fear of being the one who had to break something Connor was still trying to hold together. Fear of being the one carrying the news that could finally break him.

“I want you to hear it from someone you can actually feel free to be mad at,” Hudson added, softer now, almost like he was justifying himself.

Connor was listening—but not really processing. The words went in and collided with the internal noise already building inside him. Overlapping thoughts. Assumptions. Fragments of conversations.

Hudson lifted his hands slightly, a gesture of preemptive surrender.

“Robbie G.K. signed with CAA.”

The name landed with weight. It wasn’t just information. It was a piece that fit far too perfectly into a puzzle Connor had been avoiding finishing.

He felt something shift in his chest. A sharp lurch. Like his heart had stumbled over itself.

The images came easily. Robbie next to François. A joint announcement. Promotional photos. Interviews about chemistry, collaboration, shared projects. A perfectly engineered narrative. Possibly even leaning into a romantic storyline.

“Elena thinks François’s contract could go through as early as this week,” Hudson added.

“Bullshit,” Connor spat, without thinking.

The word was immediate. Instinctive.

The regret followed just as quickly.

Hudson’s face tightened slightly. Hurt—as if Connor’s denial implied he’d be capable of making something like that up. Connor saw it. And felt the sting. Hudson would never lie about something that could hurt him. Not like that. Never.

But François wouldn’t do something like that either… right?

“Fine,” Hudson said then, jaw tightening. “Answer the fucking phone.”

Connor turned toward the bedroom, his heart pounding in his throat.

A part of him—not as deep as he’d like to admit—hoped it was François. Hoped he was the one calling. Hoped he’d be the one to say the truth before anyone else. Hoped there was still some basic loyalty left.

Deep down, he knew Hudson was telling the truth. Hudson would never lie to him about something that could hurt him. Anyone else could fail him.

Not him.

But François?

His hand trembled when he picked up the phone. Not visibly—but enough that he had to adjust his grip before bringing it to his ear. The disappointment settled in his chest before he even answered.

It was Nick. Not François.

“Hey, Nick,” he said as soon as he picked up.

He tried not to let his voice betray the internal drop he’d just felt.

“Connor, good morning,” Nick greeted him with that professional tone he always used on the phone. Flat. Controlled. Very different from how he sounded in person. “I’ll keep this quick—I know you’re probably heading to set.”

Connor checked the time on reflex. He still had enough time. That insignificant detail felt almost offensive. The world was still functioning normally.

“Connor,” Nick continued, “did Hudson tell you about CAA coming to Montreal?”

“I just found out.”

He was answering almost automatically. As if staying brief might speed up the part that actually mattered. As if not circling it too much would make the blow cleaner.

“Right,” Nick went on. “Elena, Brad, and I will be there too.” He paused. A quiet sigh he couldn’t quite hide. “Listen, Connor, I don’t think you’re going to like what I’m about to say, but—”

“Did François sign?” Connor cut in.

The question slipped out before he could filter it.

There was half a second of silence on the other end. Enough to confirm he’d hit the exact point.

“…You already know,” Nick said, lowering his voice slightly.

“Did he sign?” Connor insisted.

He didn’t want interpretation. He didn’t want a maybe. He needed a clear word.

“We think it’ll go through this week,” Nick replied. “But, Connor… it’s basically a done deal. It just hasn’t been signed yet.”

Connor felt his pulse thudding in his temples.

“Do you know what the obligations in his contract are?”

The silence on the other end was longer this time. A wave of nausea rolled through him. His body knew something his mind hadn’t caught up with yet.

“At least in Robbie’s contract, it’s explicit. We don’t know if François’s will be identical,” Nick finally said.

“Explicit?” Connor repeated, his throat suddenly dry.

“Not implied. Literal,” Nick corrected, and Connor could hear the effort to soften the inevitable. “Robbie has a Celebrity Couple Branding clause and a PR Relationship clause.”

The terms hit him like a physical blow.

“What does that mean?” Connor asked, though he already sensed part of the answer.

“Celebrity Couple Branding means building two celebrities as a joint commercial unit,” Nick explained carefully. “What they wanted to do with you and Hudson. Magazine covers, joint interviews, ad campaigns, projects where the ‘chemistry’ is part of the appeal.”

The images returned. Sharper. More concrete.

François and Robbie on magazine covers. François and Robbie on red carpets. François and Robbie talking about connection, about closeness.

Connor felt his knees give out.

“And the other one?” he asked, already lowering himself onto the bed.

He sank onto the mattress as the tremor in his legs became impossible to ignore.

“A PR Relationship usually involves individual contracts with image clauses, joint promotion agreements, and coordinated agency strategies,” Nick continued, voice steady. “It’s easier if both are under the same agency. That’s why…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Connor understood the rest without hearing it.

If François signed. If Robbie had already signed. If they were both under the same agency.

The narrative would build itself.

It wouldn’t just be a collaboration. It would be strategy.

Connor stared ahead without really seeing anything. The phone was still pressed to his ear, but the room seemed to recede around him.

It wasn’t just that François was signing the contract.

It was that while Connor was still wondering whether their relationship could be saved, while he was thinking about how to talk to him before Montreal… François was already negotiating a future where his public image would be tied to someone else.

Officially. Publicly. Profitably.

Connor didn’t know if he was the one who hung up or if Nick ended the call. At some point, the tone disappeared, and all that remained was the heavy silence in the room.

The knot began forming in his stomach with cruel slowness. It wasn’t an immediate explosion. It was pressure that climbed gradually, squeezing his insides, rising through his chest until it lodged in his throat.

He hadn’t cried after their last fight. Not really. He’d forced himself to believe it was just another argument. One of many. That they would talk. That they would see each other in Montreal. That they’d fix it like they always did. That I don’t know where this is headed, didn’t mean it was over.

He wouldn’t cry now either. Because that would mean accepting that François was making a decision about his future that didn’t include him. That it was over, even if the word hadn’t been spoken.

Now, with the information clear, with the cold contract terms echoing in his head, Connor could see with almost painful clarity everything he’d done wrong. The way he’d shut down that morning. The way he’d gotten defensive. The way he’d redirected the conversation toward Hudson to avoid facing what François had actually been trying to tell him.

He’d behaved like a child. Unable to accept his mistakes. Unable to hold a criticism without turning it into an attack. Retreating into the comfort of what he already knew.

Didn’t this mean François had broken up with him, even if he’d said he hadn’t?

Even if he hadn’t said it outright, he was saying it with his actions.

Why didn’t he tell him something this important?

That question hit harder than any other.

François was the one who had suggested keeping their relationship private. Protecting it. Guarding what they had.

And now he was about to sign a contract that involved building a romantic narrative with someone else.

That wasn’t neutral. That was definitive.

If François went through with it—fueling rumors, showing up everywhere with Robbie, letting the agency capitalize on their “chemistry”—what future would be left for them? How could they ever, at some point, go public without Connor looking like the one who barged in? Like the one stealing his co-star’s boyfriend?

Had François thought about that? Had he considered how that would crush any remaining possibility between them?

There were no tears. No sobs. Just a heavy knot settling in his stomach and rising to his throat. And in the middle of it all, something worse.

Guilt.

Maybe he hadn’t given him enough trust to tell him. Maybe François felt he couldn’t share something like that without Connor reacting badly. Maybe Connor himself had built that distance. But the thought that hurt the most was something else.

Connor had told him.

He’d told him that CAA had made them a similar offer. That they wanted to market them as a duo. That they wanted to play with ambiguity. That he and Hudson had said no. Because they didn’t want their friendship turned into a commodity. Because they didn’t want to feed a romantic narrative that didn’t exist—or that they didn’t want to name—just for convenience.

The proposal they’d received hadn’t explicitly required a public relationship, but they both knew what the agency’s initial intention was.

And still, Connor had been transparent.

He told him. He didn’t hide it.

The difference felt like betrayal.

He grabbed his phone without thinking. He didn’t text. He didn’t have the patience to draft anything coherent. He called.

The tone rang once. Twice. Three times. Voicemail.

He hung up before the automated message finished and called again.

He waited.

Nothing.

He called again.

His heart pounded unevenly, his breathing unsteady. He didn’t know if he’d been stuck in that absurd loop for two minutes or ten. He just knew he needed to hear his voice. Needed him to say it wasn’t like that. That there was an explanation. That he wasn’t about to become the idiot who found out from third parties that his boyfriend was staging a public relationship with someone else.

But every call ended the same way.

Voicemail.

Voicemail.

Voicemail.

And with each failed attempt, reality settled in a little deeper.

François wasn’t busy. He wasn’t unreachable.

He simply didn’t want to talk to him.

***

Hudson entered the room quietly. Technically, it was his room, but in that moment it felt like he was intruding on something fragile.

He found Connor sitting on the edge of the bed, body bent forward, head buried in his hands as if he were trying to keep his head from coming apart.

Hudson had waited in the living room. When the voices stopped, he assumed the call had ended and that Connor would come out.

He didn’t.

Hudson hesitated for a second, wondering if it might be better to leave him alone. Give him space. Let him pull himself together without witnesses.

He dismissed the idea instantly.

He walked toward him slowly and, without saying a word, ran a hand through Connor’s hair.

Connor lifted his face, and something in Hudson’s chest tightened with unexpected force.

He looked at him closely, trying to read something Connor clearly wasn’t willing to fully show.

His face carried something deeper than tears. There were no tear tracks—he hadn’t cried. His eyes were only slightly swollen from lack of sleep, yet there was a constant tension in them, as if he were holding back too many things at once. His hair fell messily across his forehead, loose strands he hadn’t bothered to move aside.

But what truly gave him away wasn’t that.

It was his expression.

It wasn’t the face of someone who had already broken.

It was the face of someone refusing to break.

Hudson recognized that rigidity. The clenched jaw. The stare fixed on some vague point, like Connor was trying to force pieces into an order he didn’t want to accept. There was pain, yes—but also disbelief. Doubts stacking up behind his eyes. Questions with no answers.

And above all, a silent resistance.

Hudson understood then that it wasn’t that Connor wasn’t hurting. It was that crying, right now, would mean accepting that François was actually capable of doing something like this.

And Connor wasn’t ready to accept that.

Hudson felt his ribs expand with the breath he’d been holding. It wasn’t just sadness building in his chest. It was anger. Dry, contained anger, aimed squarely at one person.

Wasn’t the bare minimum a conversation? A fucking heads-up?

“You haven’t washed up,” Hudson murmured, brushing his thumb gently beneath Connor’s eyes as if he could wipe the exhaustion from his skin. “Come on.”

Connor stood almost on instinct, like his body moved before he could stop himself. He laced his fingers through Hudson’s with a need he didn’t even try to hide. That small contact was the only solid thing he felt. Like letting go would mean collapsing onto the bedroom floor.

In the bathroom, the white light was merciless. Too honest.

Hudson guided him to the closed toilet lid and practically made him sit. He stood in front of him and cradled his face in both hands, tilting it slightly side to side, assessing the damage as if it were physical.

“You don’t need to shave today,” he said at last, almost clinically serious.

He stepped away for a second, opened the cabinet, grabbed a small towel, and ran it under cold water. Then he came back and pressed it carefully against Connor’s face, cooling his skin, easing the swelling in his eyelids and the tension etched into his features.

“You look like hell,” he added quietly.

Connor’s eyes locked onto his. Vulnerable. Unshielded.

“I’m sorry,” Connor said finally. “I didn’t doubt you, it’s just that…”

“I know you didn’t,” Hudson interrupted calmly. “It was the shock.”

Connor swallowed.

“Am I overreacting to feel this bad about it?”

Hudson shook his head immediately.

“No.” His voice was firm now. “But maybe you’re jumping ahead to what might happen. We don’t know if he’ll sign. We don’t know exactly what’s in his contract.”

Hudson knew he was cushioning the fall. Buying space inside the uncertainty.

“Huddy…” Connor said his name like he was hitting the brakes.

Hudson fell silent.

Because they both knew it was unlikely reality would look much different from what Elena, Nick, and Brad had described.

Connor dropped his gaze, hands hanging loosely between his knees.

“It has to be my fault,” he murmured. “I didn’t handle things well with him. I just…”

“Hey.” Hudson leaned closer, forcing himself into Connor’s line of sight. “What exactly are you guilty of?”

Connor didn’t answer right away.

Hudson cupped his face again, making him look at him.

“For not having psychic powers?” he said with a faint smile. “Because if you’ve been hiding that you can read contracts telepathically, this is a terrible time to reveal it.”

Connor let out a sound that was half breath, half broken laugh.

Hudson seized that tiny crack.

“You’re not responsible for someone making decisions without talking to you. You’re not responsible for another grown man signing whatever the hell he wants. And you’re definitely not accountable for an agency’s clauses that want to sell romance like it’s fucking breakfast cereal.”

The smile faded, but his tone stayed soft.

“You might’ve made mistakes in your relationship. Sure. Everyone does. But that doesn’t make you guilty of every choice he makes afterward.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to him when you asked me to.”

The words came out low, sincere.

Hudson shook his head immediately, like he wanted to cut that line of thinking off before it could grow. He let go of Connor’s face and moved toward the sink, reaching for the toothbrush with a practical, almost domestic gesture.

“Don’t say that,” he replied, smiling as he squeezed toothpaste onto the bristles. “Especially not with that dirty mouth.”

Connor let out a real laugh this time. Not loud. Not dramatic. But genuine. The sound eased some of the tension hanging in the air.

Hudson handed him the toothbrush and tapped the tip of Connor’s nose with his finger, light, almost childish.

“I’m sure he’ll talk to you,” he said, trying to make his tone sound steady instead of hopeful. “Whatever you two argued about isn’t big enough to shut you out of something like this. Maybe he just doesn’t know how to bring it up.”

Connor started brushing his teeth with distracted, lazy movements, like even that required more effort than he had to spare.

Hudson watched him for another second.

“I’ll wait outside.”

He stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door softly behind him.

The second he was alone, the pressure came back.

He leaned against the hallway wall and let his head fall back, exhaling slowly. He had no idea whether he’d actually made Connor feel better or if he’d just slapped a bandage over a wound that was going to rip open again soon.

How the hell do you comfort someone through something like this?

I’m sorry your boyfriend is signing a deal to sell a romantic storyline with someone else.
I’m sorry he’s willing to parade around like you don’t even exist.
I’m sorry he’s making this kind of career move when he doesn’t even need it.

He couldn’t say any of that. It wasn’t his place.

And that was the problem.

There was a heaviness in Hudson’s chest he didn’t know where to put. It wasn’t just indignation. It wasn’t just anger at François. It was something uglier.

Watching the man he likes suffer over someone else felt deeply unfair—and, at the same time, deeply selfish. There was a part of him—a part he hated admitting—that wasn’t just furious about the betrayal, but furious that the pain didn’t belong to him.

And that made him feel like shit.

Because, on top of that, it didn’t even benefit him for Connor and François to fall apart. Not like this. Not in this way. Every fight, every fracture, left him stuck in the middle, an unwilling witness to the deterioration. Watching Connor unravel over someone else. Listening to him defend him. Justify him. Miss him.

And Hudson had to nod. Had to listen. Had to say the right things.

Had to say nice things about his boyfriend when what he really wanted was to bite his tongue until it bled.

The contradiction scraped at his throat. There was no room for his own feelings right now. There shouldn’t be.

Connor was wrecked over his relationship. Period.

Hudson’s feelings were reckless enough already, enough to push him toward crossing lines Connor had made clear. Don’t talk to my boyfriend. Don’t interfere. Don’t get involved.

And yet, the day before, he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’d talked to François.

And for a moment, he’d thought he was doing the right thing.

He’d asked him not to disappear. Not to punish Connor with silence. Not to repeat the pattern he’d already seen break him before. He’d been careful. He hadn’t attacked. He hadn’t accused. But he’d been this close to saying what he really thought—that using silence as a weapon is manipulation. That vanishing when things got uncomfortable was emotional violence.

He hadn’t said it like that. He’d held back.

And now he didn’t know if it had made any difference at all.

Worse—he didn’t know if his interference had pushed everything in the wrong direction.

Connor’s voice from the bathroom, spitting out water, snapped him back to the present.

Hudson straightened up.

He pulled out his phone almost on reflex, the way he had every day for the past few. The gesture no longer held hope; it was habit. A pointless routine he repeated even though he already knew the outcome.

He opened his chat with Kiley.

Silence.

The last message was still his. A bubble sent a couple of days ago. Before that, another. And another further up. All marked delivered. None answered.

Hudson stared at the screen longer than necessary, as if the little typing… dots might magically appear at any second. They didn’t.

She still hadn’t replied.

Had Kiley really broken up with him?

He was still looking at the empty glow of the chat reflecting in his eyes when Connor’s phone went off, the sound cutting through the apartment. From the bathroom came sudden movement. Bare feet hitting the floor in quick, uneven steps. The door opening harder than it needed to.

Connor practically ran out of the bathroom. A rushed brush against the doorframe. A sharp inhale, like that notification meant something more than a simple text.

Then, a second later, silence.

No voice. No curses. No objects hitting the floor.

Just silence.

Hudson looked up toward the hallway just as Connor appeared.

He had the phone in his hand, still unlocked. The ends of his hair damp. His T-shirt crooked. His breathing slightly fast, as if he’d sprinted farther than he actually had.

He wasn’t crying.

But something was different in his expression.

It wasn’t devastation. It wasn’t anger.

It was tension held just barely in check.

“He texted me,” Connor said without preamble.

Hudson set his phone down on the table and straightened slightly.

“François?”

Connor nodded.

He swallowed before continuing.

“He says, ‘Please, let’s meet before the meeting. Let me know when you’re in Montreal.’”

The sentence hung between them.

Hudson studied Connor’s face carefully, looking for something clear—relief. Fear. Hope.

Connor kept staring at the screen as if the words might rearrange themselves if he read them enough times. Hudson felt something in his chest tighten again.

“Well…” he said cautiously. “That’s good, right?”

Connor didn’t answer right away. He was still looking at the message, as if trying to decide whether it was an attempt to fix things.

Or François’s polite way of ending them.

***

Three days after getting the news, Hudson and Connor were no longer in shock.

They were in the technical phase now.

Their agents had sent over a stack of documents, forwarded emails, highlighted clauses, and possible scenarios drafted almost like a war manual. There were strategies to persuade, to negotiate, to stall. There were also the less pleasant projections: estimated penalty figures, contractual consequences, the risk of being quietly blacklisted within the industry if they chose to break the agreement outright.

It was overwhelming. But at least it was concrete.

That day on set had been relatively short, though intense. They’d filmed almost all their scenes for the day together, which meant long hours sharing space, repeating dialogue, adjusting marks on the floor, reviewing movements with the intimacy coordinator.

To his own surprise, Hudson felt comfortable again.

The immediate physical reaction was gone— the traitorous spike in his pulse. He’d spent entire nights repeating to himself that it wasn’t Connor. That it wasn’t the person in front of him, but the character. Ilya. The story. The script. He’d told himself that so many times that, little by little, his body started to listen.

He pushed the feeling aside. Tucked it away in a mental box labeled “not now”.

The intimate scene they filmed that afternoon should have been tense. It was in the script. It was in the choreography. But it ended up being awkward for completely different reasons.

Connor made him laugh. Not once. Not twice.

Every time they were about to maintain the required seriousness, Connor would murmur something under his breath, or shift an intonation just slightly, or make some absurd micro-expression only Hudson noticed. And Hudson—who normally had impeccable control on camera—kept breaking.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” he whispered between takes while the crew adjusted the lights.

“I would never sabotage your prestigious career,” Connor replied with exaggerated solemnity.

They blew the next take too.

Jacob sighed. The intimacy coordinator raised an eyebrow. The crew tried to hide their smiles.

And yet, between them, there was no real discomfort.

Hudson loved working with Connor. It had always been that way. They had their own rhythm, a kind of complicity that didn’t need explanation. They knew when the other was about to improvise. They knew when to tighten or relax a scene. They read each other without looking directly.

No matter how complicated things got outside of set, inside it was different.

Between them, things simply couldn’t get weird.

They could get tense. They could argue. They could talk about boundaries until there was nothing left to dissect. But weird? No. It was them.

Connor came back into the living room with two cold cans of beer, aluminum damp with condensation. He handed one to Hudson without a word and cracked his own open, the sharp snap breaking the apartment’s silence.

Hudson took the can and rolled it between his fingers before opening it. Instead of sitting on the couch, Connor dropped to the floor, leaning his back against the sofa, facing Hudson across the coffee table. He stretched his legs out and rested the beer on his thigh for a second before taking a long pull.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “I feel like my head’s going to explode.”

Hudson watched the way Connor clenched his jaw. The tension was there, gathered behind his eyes.

He took a sip of his beer and glanced at the clock on the wall.

10:40 p.m.

“Should we call it a night?” he asked gently. “We start earlier tomorrow.”

Connor let out a humorless laugh.

“Rest?” he repeated, looking at the stack of printed papers on the table. “We’re almost in Montreal and we were out all day. There’s no way we’re catching up on this.”

He leaned forward, grabbed one of the documents, and shook it slightly.

“Clauses, penalties, joint branding, PR strategies…” he listed, each word more exhausted than the last. “It feels like we’re studying for an exam nobody told us existed.”

Hudson gave a faint smile.

“Were you a terrible student when you didn’t like the syllabus?”

Connor looked up, frowning.

“I was an excellent student.”

“Yeah, sure.” Hudson took another sip. “As long as the exam didn’t involve emotional responsibility.”

Connor shot him a look that was meant to be a warning, but it ended up looking more tired than annoyed. They sat in silence for a few seconds. The distant noise of the city filtered in through the window, mixing with the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Connor let himself fall back onto the floor, part of his back against the cold tile, the other part on the edge of the rug.

“What if we can’t get out?” he asked suddenly, staring at the ceiling. “What if it’s not as simple as paying a fine and that’s it?”

Hudson set his beer on the table and leaned forward slightly, as if that might bring him into Connor’s line of sight. His phone had started vibrating, so he picked it up without looking, letting it sit in his hand while he replied.

“Then we don’t get out,” he said with a calm that wasn’t entirely real. “We negotiate. We stall. Or we make their lives hell from the inside.”

Connor raised an eyebrow.

“That sounds very you.”

“Thank you.”

Connor let out a breath that was almost a laugh.

“We can go for another hour,” he conceded. “After that, we shut it down. You’re not walking into that meeting with three-day-old eye bags.”

Connor finally looked at him.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you love me.”

Connor held his gaze a second longer than usual.

“Yeah,” he said simply.

Hudson’s attention shifted to his phone as the vibrations continued against his palm. At first he assumed it was some group chat, some minor mention. But when the screen lit up and he saw the number of notifications piling up, his stomach dropped as if he’d just lost his footing at the edge of a ten-story building.

Alerts stacked over one another without giving him space to process them. Messages. Mentions. Tags. Shared links. And one word repeated over and over: video.

His first instinct was to look up at Connor.

He was still on the floor, leaning against the couch, beer in hand, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to shut his brain off. He didn’t seem to notice anything.

Hudson opened the video.

It had been filmed from across the street, the zoom shaky, trying to get closer without being obvious. The bistro’s façade was clearly visible, the red awning, the window with the name Modavie printed in white.

And there was François.

Leaning against the glass, right beneath the sign, his silhouette framed by the reflection of the night street. His body was rigid. Shoulders tense. One hand braced against the window as if he needed something to hold him up. He wasn’t relaxed.

He was leaning forward, invading the other person’s space. His jaw was tight—Hudson could see it even through the slight pixelation. His neck strained. His lips moved fast, sharp.

The person he was arguing with was partially obscured by a wrought-iron streetlamp and a tall potted shrub from the terrace. Only a masculine silhouette was visible, an arm gesturing. The face was hidden by structure and shadow.

But all the focus landed on François. He made a wide gesture with his hand, cutting through the air as if forcefully denying something. Then he dragged his palm through his hair, exhaled violently—you could see it in the way his chest expanded—and leaned back in toward the other man.

This wasn’t a calm conversation. It didn’t look civil.

He wasn’t shouting—the video barely captured sound—but his expression was unmistakable: brows drawn tight, eyes lit up, mouth pressing thin between phrases. At one point he stepped away from the window, pacing two steps to the side, but the other man grabbed his arm and held him there.

Hudson felt something slam into his chest. The man was partially covered, but he looked tall. Dark hair. Long coat.

Hudson’s mind immediately jumped to François’ ex. He was from Montreal. And from what little he could make out of the hair, the cut looked similar. But it was night. The footage was pixelated. Even François’ face blurred when the zoom tried to focus.

Could he be arguing with a friend? Could he be pissed off about something completely unrelated?

He opened the comment section and felt nauseous.

“Wasn’t he with Connor Storrie? What’s he doing at night with another guy on a street corner having what looks like a couple’s fight?”

“That does not look like a friendly argument.”

“So he’s not actually with Connor?”

“Isn’t that his ex? I’ve seen photos before, the coat looks the same.”

“Leaves the boyfriend in Toronto and meets up with someone else in Montreal?”

“François is from Montreal, most of his friends are there. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I wonder if Connor knows his boyfriend is putting on a show with another man in the street.”

“Stop spreading rumors. François and Connor are just friends.”

“Finally, now Hudson can have Connor.”

A cold shiver ran down Hudson’s spine. All he saw was an argument. A man visibly angry. That was it.

How the hell was everyone building something bigger out of that?

And yet an uncomfortable sting cut through his chest, because he himself was hesitating to show the video to Connor. And he didn’t fully know why.

Maybe it was because the man really did look like François’ ex. Maybe it was the way, at one point in the video, the other guy grabbed François by the forearm when he seemed ready to walk away, holding him a second too long. Maybe it was how worked up François looked too emotionally charged for it to be something trivial.

Or maybe it was something simpler. Rawer.

François had time to argue in the middle of the street, out in public for anyone to see. But not enough time to answer Connor. Not enough to return a call. Not enough to explain anything.

Hudson felt that thought twist in his stomach. Because he knew exactly how Connor would read it. He wouldn’t just see a video—he’d see abandonment. He’d see misplaced priorities. He’d see confirmation of every doubt already eating him alive.

Hudson tightened his grip on the phone.

He didn’t want to be the one to add another layer of uncertainty on top of Connor. He didn’t want to be the messenger pushing the narrative social media was already salivating over.

At the same time, hiding it would be worse.

Connor wasn’t stupid. Sooner or later he’d see it. And if he found out some other way, the damage would double.

Hudson looked around quickly for Connor’s phone. Not on the table. Not on the couch. Not on the floor. Shit. He must’ve left it in the bedroom.

He stood without saying anything, his pulse starting to race even though he still didn’t fully know why. What was he trying to do? Turn Connor’s phone off before he saw it? Go into his socials and mute notifications? Buy five minutes? Thirty seconds?

Ridiculous.

Connor was going to find out anyway.

“You going to the bathroom or are you planning to run off without me?” Connor called from the floor, that low-energy tone that had been stuck to him the past few days.

“Be right back,” Hudson answered, trying to sound normal.

He walked toward the bedroom, heart beating too fast for someone who technically still didn’t know what was about to explode.

Connor’s phone was on the bed.

The screen lit up just as Hudson stepped into the room. The vibration was muffled by the mattress, but the flashing light was impossible to ignore.

He picked it up.

The lock screen was flooded. Hundreds. No—thousands of notifications. Social media mentions. DMs. Tags.

He could feel his pulse in his fingertips. He didn’t need to open anything to know it was exactly the same thing blowing up his own phone.

“Huddy,” Connor called from the living room. “Didn’t you say one more hour?”

Hudson closed his eyes for a second and breathed in through his nose.

He could try to delete something. He could try to mute it. He could—what? Hide the world?

Connor was going to worry. And the avalanche of notifications only confirmed it: the world was already worried about him. Or talking about him. Or devouring him.

Hudson dragged a hand down his face, frustrated. Maybe it wasn’t serious. Maybe it wasn’t catastrophic. But Connor was fragile. And that was the difference.

He took a slow breath, held the phone a few seconds longer, then walked out of the bedroom.

“Baby,” Hudson said finally, his voice lower than he meant it to be.

Connor had already gotten up from the floor. He was standing with a stack of printed pages in his hand, covered in notes and highlighted clauses. He turned toward him, brow faintly furrowed.

“What?”

“I think you should check—”

Hudson didn’t finish.

The vibration in Connor’s phone cut through the room. Both of them looked down at the same time.

On the lit-up screen was a name that tightened the air instantly: François.

Connor froze for half a second. Then he moved like a spring had been released inside him. He lunged for the phone, almost crashing into Hudson in the process. Hudson instinctively stepped back, afraid Connor would barrel right through him with that sudden, impulsive force.

Connor answered before the fourth ring ended.

“Hello?”

His voice came out rushed. Too rushed. He didn’t even try to hide the urgency.

Hudson bit the inside of his cheek, trying to contain the knot rising in his chest. Anger. Anxiety. A raw, protective instinct.

For one very real second, he had an almost violent urge to shove the video in Connor’s face before François could say a single word. To force him to see it. To not let any explanation, any soft tone, any “babe” from the other end shape how Connor interpreted what was happening.

But the impulse dissolved as quickly as it had come.

Connor wasn’t a child. He didn’t need anyone filtering reality for him. He would know how to read the video. He would know who that partially hidden man might be. He would know how far he was willing to bend. Just like François had decided how far he was willing to bend for him.

Hudson stayed still, watching.

Connor’s back was tense, shoulders slightly lifted, like his whole body was bracing for either a blow or a caress.

“No,” Connor said into the phone. “Why?”

Hudson swallowed.

Because whatever he’d tried to soften in his own head, whatever he’d wanted to filter before it exploded, François was probably dropping it on the other end without a single ounce of care.

“What?” Connor said into the phone—but he wasn’t fully listening anymore.

He turned sharply toward Hudson, the movement quick, almost reflexive. He flicked his free hand in the air, asking for the phone without needing words.

Hudson didn’t question it. He unlocked his own phone quickly, opened the video, held it for barely a second before placing it in Connor’s hand.

Connor took it.

His eyes dropped automatically to the screen.

He didn’t inhale sharply. Didn’t curse. Didn’t react outwardly at all. He just looked. Then he glanced up at Hudson. A silent question: You’ve already seen this?

Hudson held his gaze for a beat. He didn’t need to explain.

Connor understood immediately. He gave the faintest nod, as if accepting that this was exactly what Hudson had meant to show him before the call came in. As if everything clicked into place at once.

He turned his attention back to the video without moving the phone from his ear.

He watched almost without blinking.

If there was an emotional storm inside him, he wasn’t showing it. His face was too still. Too controlled. He listened to François through the phone while watching the footage at the same time.

He watched it all the way through.

And when it ended, he didn’t look away.

The video started again.

Hudson noticed it because François’s sharp hand gesture replayed on the screen again. Connor was watching it on a loop.

“It’s fine,” Connor said into the phone at last, without a trace of emotion.

His voice was flat. Almost numb.

“No… no…” he sighed. “With Hudson… yes.”

He closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, as if something on the other end had touched a nerve.

“In four days.”

He opened his eyes and glanced at Hudson briefly. It was a quick look, as if weighing his options. As if deciding whether he should step away to continue the conversation in private.

But he didn’t move. He stayed right there.

“Did you call just to tell me this?” he asked, and though his tone was low, there was a faint edge beneath it.

He waited. François answered something Hudson couldn’t hear.

“Yeah, I know, but…” — There was a pause.— “Yeah. Okay…”

Connor looked at Hudson again for a second before turning his gaze away.

“Yeah. Me too.”

The words hung in the air.

Then he hung up.

Connor slipped the phone into the pocket of his joggers with a mechanical motion. He still wasn’t looking at Hudson. The silence that followed felt heavier than the conversation.

“So…” Hudson said carefully. “Everything okay?”

Connor lifted his eyes to him.

“He asked me not to stay on social media looking at that. Said we’d talk about everything once I get to Montreal.”

Hudson frowned slightly.

“Everything?” he asked, skepticism creeping into his voice. “Does he mean everything?”

Connor didn’t answer right away.

He leaned back against the wall, as if he needed something solid behind him. He tilted his head back to take a breath and, in the careless motion, hit the back of his head lightly against the wall.

It wasn’t hard, but it was enough for Hudson to react.

Connor closed his eyes for a second—not from the physical pain, which was minimal, but from the accumulation of everything else.

He inhaled again. Slower this time.

“Hey,” Hudson murmured, stepping closer immediately.

He cupped the back of Connor’s head gently, and Connor, without resistance, let his forehead fall against Hudson’s shoulder. Hudson moved his hand to the spot where he’d bumped it and stroked it slowly, as if the damage were physical and he could soothe it that way.

“You okay?”

Connor shook his head. It was a small movement. Slow. But Hudson felt it. The weight against his shoulder wasn’t just bodily.

“What is it?” Hudson asked softly, even as his chest tightened at the sight of him like this.

Connor took a while to answer. His breathing was uneven against the fabric of Hudson’s shirt.

“I know him so well… in my own way… that I—” He trailed off, the words catching in his throat.

Hudson didn’t push. He waited.

“Maybe it’s the fact that the contract thing is practically a done deal and he still hasn’t said anything, but…” Another pause.

Hudson pulled back just enough to see his face, to search his eyes.

“What is it?”

Connor pressed his lips together, staring at some vague point between them.

“If he hadn’t called me to say not to overthink the video until we see each other…” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t have seen anything wrong in it.”

Connor continued, faster now, as if he needed to justify it.

“François has a lot of friends in Montreal. Even if it was his ex…” he shrugged. “I could understand it.” They don’t see each other all the time. They have a dog together. It’s normal that they talk. Maybe they argued about something small.”

He let out a short, dry laugh. No humor in it.

“I don’t know.” He dragged a hand over his face, frustrated. “I know him so well, in my own way, that I can tell he did something… and he’s not telling me.”

The sentence hung between them.

“And force myself to believe it’s just about the contract it’s just about the contract… and not something else.”

“What do you mean, something else?”

“I don’t know.” Connor sighed. “Maybe he doesn’t really love me anymore and doesn’t know how to say it.”

“No—what are you talking about?” Hudson grimaced as if the idea itself were absurd.

“I don’t know.” Connor shook his head, as if he could knock the thoughts loose. “I don’t know. Maybe this time he doesn’t want to keep insisting on us. He sounded distant on the phone. I…”

The sentence trailed off. He pulled away from Hudson gently and gave his arm a light, almost affectionate pat.

“Don’t mind me. You’ve got enough going on with your mess with Kiley.”

Hudson flinched slightly at her name. It was minimal, but Connor would have noticed on another day. Not this one. Hudson forced the reaction down, stored it with everything else.

This wasn’t the moment.

“You really don’t see anything wrong in the video?” Hudson pressed, returning to the point. “You know you can be honest with me.”

Connor looked at him with tired sincerity.

“Do you see something?”

It wasn’t defensive. It was genuine. Connor needed to know if Hudson was seeing something he wasn’t. If he was being naïve. Or if, on the contrary, he was trying to convince himself of something that wasn’t there.

Hudson hesitated for barely a second before answering.

“I just see someone who didn’t usually lose his temper easily… getting angry and losing control a little too quickly.”

He was thinking about the last conversation he’d had with François. The tension he’d felt then. And the image of him, visibly agitated in a public space, gesturing with that intensity.

It didn’t entirely match the François he’d first known. Hudson had always considered him a mature man. In fact, during the dinners and trips they’d shared, Hudson had often felt like he was learning something from him. François had confidence, composure, that measured way of speaking that projected control.

But their most recent encounters hadn’t been like that. They had been tense. Impatient. Reactive.

Hudson shook his head slightly at his own line of thought. He didn’t want to fall into a simplistic, almost patronizing reading—as if age automatically granted emotional balance.

Maturity isn’t linear. It takes a certain maturity to set pride aside and ask the person you see as a threat to step back. François had done that. He had confronted Hudson. He had said plainly what made him uncomfortable.

But there was something contradictory in that too. Because exposing yourself like that implies vulnerability. And making yourself vulnerable in front of someone you don’t know will be careful with you can also be reckless.

François was a few years older than them. But does age eliminate insecurity? Does it deactivate the fear of being replaced? Or does it simply make it quieter, more strategic?

Hudson couldn’t help wondering whether what he was seeing wasn’t just anger, but anxiety. An attachment that overanalyzes signals. That interprets any outside closeness as a threat. That reacts before it feels abandoned.

Connor was still looking at him, waiting. Hudson held his gaze.

“But that doesn’t mean there’s something else there,” he added at last. “Just… that he doesn’t look calm.”

Connor nodded slowly.

He didn’t look convinced.

Connor stepped into the shower as if hot water could do more than just clean his skin. He let the stream hit the back of his neck, then his face, squeezing his eyes shut. Steam thickened the air until it felt dense, almost suffocating.

He wanted the heat to clear his head.
It didn’t.

The video kept replaying behind his eyelids. François pressed against the glass. The sharp cut of his hand through the air. The other man grabbing his arm. The tension in his neck.

He tried to understand what everyone else was seeing. What exactly the comments were amplifying as though it were an obvious betrayal. Because yes—even though François had asked him not to look at social media—that was exactly what Connor had done the second he hung up.

He opened the comments. Read the theories. Let himself get dragged in.

And he still didn’t see anything concrete.
He just saw his boyfriend angry.

François didn’t get angry easily. Or at least, he hadn’t used to. Over the past few months, he’d been more irritable, more reactive… but Connor knew—or thought he knew—that a large part of that tension had his name on it.

His inability to read what François needed. His selective blindness. His stubbornness.

He braced both hands against the shower wall and lowered his head as water ran down his back.

He couldn’t stop worrying.

He ran through every possible scenario in his head, one after another, as if analyzing them might give him control.

If he was honest with himself, the silhouette in the video didn’t look like François’s ex. Not really. The hair didn’t match exactly. The height didn’t either.

But he didn’t want to say that out loud. Because maybe Hudson would think he was being naïve. Especially if he heard himself saying something like: Fran had been taller than his ex by about the span of Connor’s hand — easy enough to gauge against his phone screen. — The guy in the video fell short by at least nine finger-widths.

It sounded pathetic even inside his own head. Like he was trying to solve betrayal with an imaginary ruler. Hudson would probably think he was making excuses. Defending the indefensible. Forcing logic where maybe there wasn’t any.

And yet—it was just a video. One man arguing with another man on the street. That was it. The meaning wasn’t in the gesture or the anger. It was in who the other person was. Because that changed everything. And to Connor, that wasn’t François’s ex.

So by that logic, the video wasn’t relevant.

But there was something else. Something he hadn’t told Hudson. A suspicion he was almost embarrassed to put into words, even to himself.

Connor couldn’t stop thinking that maybe François had accepted another job.

One that had been meant for him. Or for Hudson. Like before.

The first time hadn’t exactly been betrayal. It had been an offer tossed into the air. A proposal that, in theory, didn’t carry major consequences. A company testing possibilities, moving pieces around, trying combinations. François hadn’t known that it might displace Hudson. That they could swap names like chess pieces.

Nothing had been clear at first.
Until it was.

Until Elena, Brad, and Nick laid the data out and speculation turned into something concrete. And even before it was confirmed, it had hurt. But now François knew exactly how those dynamics worked. He knew what a joint branding clause meant. He knew what it meant to accept a project that sidelined someone close to you. He knew what CAA was trying to build.

It wasn’t some casual offer floating in the air anymore. It was a clear context.

And if, knowing all of that, he still chose to accept another job that directly impacted Connor or Hudson… then it wouldn’t be naïveté.

It would be a choice.

And that difference was what pressed against Connor’s chest harder than any leaked video ever could.

Would François be capable of doing something like that again?

It wasn’t about jealousy.
It was about loyalty.

And that doubt—more than any comment online, more than any gesture caught on a distant camera—was what truly weighed on him.

He turned off the shower, and the silence in the bathroom felt too loud.

Minutes later, he was sitting on the bed with a towel knotted low on his hips and another in his hands, drying his hair with distracted, almost automatic movements. Steam still lingered in the air, lightly fogging the mirror opposite the closetThe room was dimly lit by the corner lamp, a warm glow softening the shadows and making everything look calmer than it actually was.

He was staring into nothing when the door opened.

Hudson.

“Hey,” he greeted, suppressing a yawn, his skincare bag hanging from one hand.

Connor looked up and couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips as he watched Hudson drag his feet toward the bed, exhaustion written in every step. Hudson dropped the bag onto the mattress with a dull thud and looked him over from head to toe like he was assessing damage.

“You’re a mess. You’re going to look terrible on set tomorrow,” he said, unzipping the bag. “Did you wash your face?”

Connor nodded.

“Tell me you didn’t use the same soap you wash your ass with.”

Connor let out a short laugh. “I still have the one you gave me for my birthday.”

Hudson froze for half a second before rolling his eyes dramatically.

“You should’ve finished that a month ago. You have to take care of this face,” he said, pinching Connor’s cheek lightly. “Don’t you see you make money off it?”

Connor arched a brow. “I thought it was my ass. I’m the nation’s ass.”

Hudson shrugged casually. “Yeah, that too,” he admitted without ceremony. “Give me that.”

He took the towel from Connor’s hands and started drying his hair properly, rubbing with controlled energy, pushing the curls back into place.

“We’re fixing this face right now.”

Connor watched him closely, noticing the yawn Hudson had tried to hide, the faint shadows under his eyes.

“You look tired.”

“I am,” Hudson replied plainly. “But if you show up looking worse than this tomorrow, I’m going to feel worse. I’m doing this for me, not for you.”

Connor smiled at that, something softer than humor in it. He shifted on the bed and tilted his face up, offering it without hesitation.

Hudson pulled a cream from the bag, twisted the cap off, and began applying it with precise, almost professional movements. His fingers were firm but gentle, spreading the product across Connor’s forehead, cheeks, and the bridge of his nose.

“Close your eyes,” Hudson murmured.

Connor obeyed without question. He let the darkness settle in as Hudson’s fingers moved across his skin with quiet concentration. The cool cream spread over his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, pausing for a second between his brows as if Hudson could smooth away the tension gathered there. Then it moved to his cheeks, his cheekbones, the line of his jaw.

Hudson worked in silence. Meticulous. Too meticulous.

Connor could feel every place Hudson pressed a little more firmly, every point where the touch slowed down.

It wasn’t the first time Hudson had done this. It had happened before — between laughter, between jokes about nonexistent wrinkles and contracts worth millions that depended on good lighting.

But this silence felt different.

Hudson opened another product. Connor heard him rub something between his fingers.

“Don’t frown,” Hudson murmured absently.

Connor hadn’t realized he was. He forced his expression to soften and relax his mouth.

He felt Hudson’s thumb trace the outline of his lips, wiping away any invisible trace of dryness. The gesture was firm at first. Practical.

Then it slowed.

The thumb slid across his lower lip with a different kind of pressure. Not the same pressure he’d used on his forehead or his cheeks. It paused at the center, as if measuring the shape. As if needing to remember the texture.

Connor’s world narrowed to that exact point of contact. His heart kicked hard against his ribs. One sharp thud. Then another. And another.

Hudson didn’t pull his hand away right away. His thumb passed over Connor’s lower lip again, slower this time. Too slow to be accidental.

Connor opened his eyes.

Hudson seemed to startle, like someone had called his name from very far away. He blinked once, twice, and his expression rearranged itself. It was like watching him wake up from something he shouldn’t have been thinking about.

He tried to pull his hand back. Connor held it in place.

“What are you doing?” Connor asked, forcing a playful tone that didn’t match the frantic pressure in his chest. His heart was racing, like it was about to give him away.

“Putting lip balm on you,” Hudson replied, too calm to be believable. “I’m done. I’ll go.”

He tried to step back, but Connor didn’t let go of his wrist. Hudson managed three steps before Connor’s grip stopped him.

“Where are you going?” Connor insisted.

“To my room.”

Simple. Direct. As if it were obvious. Connor lowered his hand slowly, but he didn’t fully let him go. He was still holding onto his fingers.

“We’ve slept together every night,” he murmured. “Do you really think I want to be alone tonight?”

Hudson looked at him then, his brow slightly furrowed. He didn’t look annoyed. He looked… Connor couldn’t read it.

“Connor…”

There was a warning in his voice. Or fear. Or both.

Connor swallowed.

He didn’t fully understand what he was asking for. He didn’t know what that moment in the dim room light had been — Hudson’s fingers moving too slowly over his mouth. He didn’t know why his body had reacted like that.

“Please?” he said more quietly this time. “I need you.”

It was honest.

The room fell silent. Hudson watched him for several long seconds, weighing something Connor couldn’t see.

Finally, he exhaled — and stayed.

***

They boarded the flight to Montreal a little after noon. The airport had been a blur of quick greetings, security checks, and glances that never lingered long enough to settle. Jacob was already in Montreal; he’d flown out the night before to get ahead of a few things. He’d be waiting for them there.

Connor and Hudson took their seats side by side in first class. Elena had handled the tickets; she’d spent the day with Brad going over details, and amid all the chaos, at least she made sure they were seated together.

Hudson leaned his head back against the seat and stared at the ceiling of the cabin for a few seconds before turning toward Connor.

“Should we start saving money and stop flying first class?” he said with a half-smile. “I mean, we’re heading straight to the slaughterhouse anyway… we might as well get executed in economy so the experience matches. Knees digging into our backs, a screaming baby behind us. More authentic.”

Connor glanced at him from the corner of his eye, exhausted, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. Without saying anything, he took Hudson’s hand and pressed it against his thigh, as if he needed to confirm he was still there. That he wasn’t about to face this alone.

“We still have the option to walk away,” he said at last. “I have no idea how this is going to play out.”

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t dramatics. It was a real possibility.

Hudson laced their fingers together for a few seconds, then slowly let go.

“Then let’s save some money so we can,” he replied, keeping his tone light, playful, even though the tension underneath was obvious. “From what they told us, it won’t look great for either of us if we leave CAA. But if we can afford the breach-of-contract penalties, it might actually work.”

Connor exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh.

“And end up homeless.”

“Then let’s save enough to leave with dignity. Picture it: ‘CAA ruins our careers and we exit through the back door in a shared Uber because we blew everything on first-class champagne.’”

Connor snorted, this time actually laughing.

“The champagne is free.”

“Exactly. We drink as much as possible. If we’re getting sacrificed, at least we’ll be hydrated.” Hudson raised his free hand in a mock fist.

“You do realize alcohol dehydrates you?”

“You do realize you’re not Shane Hollander?” Hudson shot back. “Don’t be so literal, baby.”

A flight attendant passed by just then, and Hudson looked up at her with complete seriousness.

“How many complimentary glasses technically count as a long-term investment?”

Connor covered his mouth to keep from laughing too loudly.

“Please don’t get us kicked off the plane before the agency even tries.”

Hudson looked him up and down with exaggerated scrutiny.

“Look at us. Two men in first class, on our way to a potentially traumatic meeting, clinging to each other like we’re in a low-budget romantic comedy.”

Connor squeezed his fingers again.

“We are a low-budget romantic comedy.”

“With an even lower budget after today,” Hudson corrected. “Which is why I insist on saving. Also, I might need you to let me crash at your place.” He paused. “I’m not sure I even have a home to go back to anymore.”

Connor felt every muscle in his body tighten at once, like someone had pulled an invisible thread from the base of his spine. He turned slightly toward Hudson, but Hudson was already looking straight ahead, pretending to be fascinated by the runway as the plane began to move.

It was the only thing Hudson had said all week about Kiley.

No details. No explanations. Just long silences, quick changes of subject, vague answers. Connor had tried not to push. It didn’t feel fair to turn his own crisis into an interrogation about Hudson’s. But now that sentence lodged itself deep in his chest.

I’m not sure I even have a home to go back to anymore.

”In his head, theories began to form — clumsy, incomplete.

Maybe Kiley was just angry. Maybe she needed space. Maybe it had been a big fight, but fixable. Maybe it was something that had been building for years, a series of small things that never quite settled. Maybe it was just the natural wear of a long relationship. Or the fact that they both lived at an impossible pace, always between flights and shoots.

Maybe she was tired of the exposure. Tired of the industry. Tired of her life constantly orbiting around Hudson’s career.

Maybe there was someone else.

The thought pierced his chest immediately, and he pushed it away almost as quickly. Not because it was impossible — but because he refused to project his own disaster onto Hudson’s life.

Maybe they’d argued about something completely unrelated. Something domestic. Something stupid. Something that had nothing to do with him.

Maybe…

And then the last possibility surfaced. The one he tried not to put into words.

Maybe it was because of him.

Maybe Kiley had seen the same thing François had been pointing out for months. The closeness. The way they gravitated toward each other without thinking. The way they became each other’s refuge before anything else.

Connor swallowed.

The idea was uncomfortable. Not because he believed he’d done anything deliberately. But because he knew that, from the outside, it didn’t always look innocent. Sleeping in the same bed. Holding hands. That constant complicity. That dependency Hudson had put into words days ago — the one Connor was still trying to digest.

The closeness did things to him he preferred not to examine. The scent of Hudson’s skin — clean, warm, with that almost imperceptible trace of sandalwood and vetiver — had an immediate effect on him. It was physical. Concrete. Like his body recognized something before his mind did. Every time they slept together, every time he rested his forehead against Hudson’s shoulder, every time Hudson wrapped his arms around him without thinking, Connor felt his breathing regulate on its own.

As if his nervous system understood that he was safe there. And that scared him a little.

The way Hudson looked at him didn’t help either. It wasn’t different — or that’s what Connor wanted to believe — it was the same as always: attentive, present, honest. But lately Connor noticed it more than he should. As if he’d become aware of every slight shift in Hudson’s pupils, every microexpression that used to slip past him unnoticed.

And the way he himself looked at Hudson…

That was what he was trying not to touch.

Because if he stopped to think about how his heart had reacted the other night when Hudson brushed his lips — when his thumb lingered just a second too long — he’d have to admit it hadn’t been only surprise. That his pulse hadn’t spiked from discomfort. That there had been something else. Something he didn’t know how to name.

Connor cursed himself silently.

He forced those thoughts down, almost violently, like shoving inconvenient papers to the back of a drawer.

First things first.

François.

He had so much to talk through with him. So many unfinished conversations. So many questions that couldn’t keep floating between them. The contract. The video. The distance in his voice. The constant feeling that something was shifting beneath his feet.

Until that was resolved — for better or worse — Connor wasn’t going to let himself dismantle anything else.

He wasn’t going to stop and examine the new pressure in his chest when Hudson got too close. He wasn’t going to analyze why his body reacted differently. He wasn’t going to question boundaries he himself had defended.

Because it would be unfair. And it would be cowardly.

Besides, there was something else pricking at him with guilt.

He didn’t want Hudson’s relationship to crack because of him. He didn’t want to be the variable that threw everything off balance. He didn’t want to be the point of friction in someone else’s story. Because if anyone pointed at Hudson as the variable that fractured his relationship with François, Hudson would feel exactly the same: vulnerable, exposed, angry at the world.

Connor didn’t want to occupy that place in Hudson’s life. Didn’t want to be the reason someone else looked at him with resentment. So he clenched his teeth.

François first.

Everything else — if there even was an “everything else” — would have to wait.

“She hasn’t texted you?” Connor finally asked.

Hudson shook his head, and Connor understood he wouldn’t say more. Hudson was in the middle of something with his girlfriend too. Even if Connor didn’t fully understand what.

“Hey,” Connor added after a few seconds, his voice lower now. “If you need to… you know. My place isn’t a crash pad. It’s your home too.”

Hudson glanced at him, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“Careful, Storrie. I’ll take you up on that and never leave.”

Connor exhaled through his nose, a soft laugh loosening something tight in his chest.

Suddenly he felt bad for Hudson.

He’d spent the entire week trying to hold him together. Being more ridiculous than usual. Exaggerating gestures, comments, jokes. Making him breakfast. Waiting to have dinner together when their schedules aligned. Creating small domestic rituals that gave them the illusion of stability. They trained together day after day.

And they’d slept together every night.

Curled around each other.

Not out of romantic habit. Not because they were crossing lines. But because, somehow, each day that brought them closer to that meeting was devouring them both alive. Shared fear was easier to bear in the dark, with the other’s warmth reminding them that whatever happened in Montreal, they wouldn’t be alone in the fall.

When the plane finally touched down, the slight jolt against the runway traveled through their bodies like a quiet shock. Connor let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and, almost at the same time, turned his head toward Hudson. They looked at each other automatically.

They both wore that tight, crooked smile — not exactly happiness. More like we’re here. A silent acknowledgment that speculation was officially on a countdown now.

Montreal. The real stage.

Connor felt anxiety knot in his stomach the moment the plane slowed. It wasn’t just the meeting with CAA the next day. It was what came before it.

François.

The thought of seeing him in person twisted everything inside him. Talking on the phone was one thing. Reading messages, another. But facing him, looking him in the eye, hearing his voice without filters or call drops… that was different. That would be definitive.

When the plane came to a full stop and people began standing, Connor pulled out his phone almost clumsily. His fingers typed before he could think too much about it.

Where are you? Just landed.

He sent the message and slipped the phone back into his pocket as if it burned.

Hudson glanced at him. For a second, he seemed to debate whether to move closer or stay where he was. In the end, he chose something safe: two firm, steady pats on Connor’s back.

“Are you seeing him now?” he asked quietly as they moved to retrieve their luggage.

Connor nodded.

The motion was so slight it almost went unnoticed, but inside he felt the ground tilt. Nausea rose like a sudden wave. He was nervous to the bone. It wasn’t exactly fear. It was anticipation. Knowing something was about to break or mend — but not remain the same.

Security staff were already waiting when they exited. They met up with Elena and Nick a few feet ahead, both checking something on a phone.

“Guys.” Elena greeted them with a warm, enveloping hug — professional, but genuinely affectionate.

Nick shook their hands firmly.

“Brad’s making a small adjustment to the hotel reservations,” Nick explained as they began walking. “We’ll grab something and then head straight there.”

“But first,” Elena cut in, lowering her voice with a warning tone, “it’s chaos outside. Press, fans, random onlookers — all mixed together. So you know the drill: don’t step out of the human chain we’re forming on the way to the van.If one of you stops, it becomes a circus.”

She pointed at both of them in turn.

“I know how you two are. No stopping to sign anything, no picking things up off the ground, no spontaneous motivational speeches. There’s traffic, and we will shut down half the airport.”

Hudson raised both hands in surrender. Connor nodded, distracted.

His phone vibrated in his hand. His heart slammed hard against his ribs.

I’m home. Same passcode. I’ll be waiting.

Connor stared at the screen a second too long.

Home.

Not a hotel. Not a café. Not neutral ground.

His condo.

At some point Connor had convinced himself — even though François had never actually said it out loud —that François felt uncomfortable with him being in spaces he’d once shared with his ex when they’d lived together in that house. It was an idea that had taken root without clear proof, built out of silences, tiny gestures, half-formed comments that never fully materialized.

Connor, on the other hand, had never really stopped to think about it. He’d never analyzed whether he was fucking his boyfriend on the same sheets someone else had once slept on, or sharing the same bed that had witnessed another story. He hadn’t thought about it because, to him, the past wasn’t competition. It was context. It was the road that had led François to him. It didn’t feel dirty. It didn’t feel like a threat. It was simply history.

But today—today, with everything teetering—the idea lodged in his stomach with unexpected violence. The nausea didn’t come from the image itself. It came from what it represented. From the possibility of walking into a space that maybe no longer belonged to him. Sitting on a couch that had hosted other reconciliations. Moving through a kitchen where decisions might now be made without him.

The condo, which had once felt welcoming, suddenly became uncertain territory in his mind. And he hated himself a little for that. He had never been jealous of François’s past. He had never wanted to compete with ghosts. But now he couldn’t help wondering whether, deep down, there had always been something unresolved there. Something he chose not to examine because trusting was easier than questioning.

Maybe that was why the nausea felt different this time. It wasn’t romantic insecurity. It was the feeling of arriving late to a conversation that had been happening for a while without him.

What if the man in the video really was his ex?

What if François wanted to see him at the house to close something?

They tried to make it work for a year and a half, but he ultimately chose to go back to the other man.

The thought punched straight through his chest.

No. He forced himself to reject it. François wouldn’t do that to him. Not like that. Not after a year and a half.

But then the image of the contract came back. The clauses. The campaigns. The meeting with CAA the next day. And the certainty didn’t feel so solid anymore.

Maybe he just wants to be somewhere private and safe.

Connor clung to that idea as security escorted them toward the exit.

François had bought an apartment in Vancouver months ago. And the condo in Montreal—that condo—was almost always rented out when he wasn’t in the city. It was too well located to leave empty: warm, inviting, high ceilings and wide windows, decorated with restrained taste that always made Connor feel comfortable there.

He liked that condo. He liked the way the wooden floors smelled when you walked in from the cold. He liked the open kitchen. He liked that the couch was big enough for both of them to stretch out and watch movies without crowding each other.

It was a good place. Safe.

Maybe François had simply calculated the timing. If he knew he’d be in Montreal for several weeks for work, it made sense not to rent it out. There was nothing strange about that. It didn’t have to mean anything more.

And besides—Connor forced himself to think—he should be grateful. It was far more comfortable to meet there than at a hotel. A hotel where François might already be staying. A hotel where Connor wasn’t. A hotel full of staff, lobby cameras, people coming and going, strangers with phones always ready. Anyone could be looking to sell information. Any receptionist could leak an arrival time. Any guest could film an awkward encounter in the elevator.

The condo was better. More private.

Connor tried to slow his breathing.

Maybe François was just thinking strategically. Maybe there was no hidden symbolism. Maybe he was simply avoiding another public spectacle.

He repeated that to himself as they moved toward the van.

Because the alternative—that he had asked him there to end something for good—was a thought Connor wasn’t ready to hold.

Not yet.

So he chose the kinder version of the story. For now, it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Nick,” Connor said, pulling himself back to the present. “I need to make a stop.”

Hudson heard. Connor knew it from the faint tension in his jaw. But Hudson pretended not to, staring ahead as if focused on the flow of people.

Nick studied him for a second.

“We’ll drop you off on the way. But you come with us first. We leave here together, then we’ll figure it out.”

Connor nodded.

For two seconds, his eyes met Hudson’s. There was something there. Something that felt dangerously close to understanding.
They both looked away at the same time.

Connor lowered his gaze to his phone and typed with steadier fingers than he felt.

On my way. See you in a bit.

He hit send.

And with that small, ordinary gesture, he felt like he’d just taken the first step toward something he wasn’t sure he’d be able to survive.

Chapter End Notes

Alright, continuing from above:

4. I’ve been really busy with work, but whenever I get the chance, I write. And I’ll keep updating as soon as I can.

5. Did you notice I increased the chapter count from 25 to 30? I’m not trying to drag anything out — I just realized I might not have enough space to tell everything properly.

6. I always reply to every comment, but I’ve been so busy that I haven’t caught up yet. I’ll read and respond to all of them today.

7. Before I forget, I know a lot of you are desperate for a real kiss between Hudson and Connor— please, just have a little patience. I really think forcing it at this point would mess with something essential to the story. So it’s coming. Soon. Don’t hate me.

 

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoy the chapter!!

Chapter 12: Almost

Chapter Notes

Today I learned my lesson: I’m never again saying which chapter something will happen in. 😭 ’Cause you know what? It’s not this one either — I’m sooo sorry. 🤍

This chapter is over 13k words, and everything I included was necessary, but we still haven’t reached the point I mentioned two chapters ago. So all I can say is: someday. 🫠✨

Connor arrived at François’s condo long before his nerves even had a chance to settle. If anything, they’d only intensified during the drive. His mouth was dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and there was that uncomfortable feeling that his skin fit too tight over his body, like anxiety was pressing against him from the inside.

He’d spent the entire ride rehearsing the conversation. Testing out different openings.

Why didn’t you tell me?
Is the contract thing true?
What’s going on between us?
Who’s the guy in the video?

In his head, They’d sounded steady. Coherent. Mature, even. But now, standing in front of the building, they were nothing but scrambled noise.

Before stepping out of the van, he squeezed Hudson’s shoulder. It was brief, almost automatic, but loaded with everything they weren’t saying. Hudson answered with two soft pats over his hand.

“I hope it goes well,” he said, holding his gaze a second longer than usual.

Connor tried to smile. What came out was something close to a smile. He hoped so too. He shut the door, and the dull thud of the vehicle pulling away left him alone with the distant murmur of the city.

In front of the condo door, his fingers hesitated for just a beat before keying in the code: 05072202.

The soft beep sounded too loud in his head. When the lock clicked open and he pushed the door inward, his stomach flipped. The inside was quiet. Calm, even—but instead of soothing him, it tightened something in his chest.

The space was empty, lit by sunlight filtering through the windows and the warm glow of the indirect lamps François always left on. The place still carried that impeccable order it always had, like it had been staged rather than lived in.Neither Connor nor François had been there in a long time. They spent all their time together in Vancouver or L.A. It had been a little over a week since François arrived, and yet the entire space smelled like him. His woody cologne. The scent that clung to shirts, to pillows, to skin.

He closed the door behind him, and the lock’s click echoed through the living room. For a second, he stood still, listening. Waiting for movement. The sound of water. Footsteps. A voice calling his name from another room. Nothing.

He took a few steps into the living room. The couch where they’d spent entire afternoons watching movies. The coffee table where they’d once argued over something stupid and ridiculous. The floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city, the view stretching out like a distant promise.

Connor walked down the hallway, his pulse pounding in his ears. Each step sounded too loud in the apartment’s silence. François had to be there. He’d said he would wait.

Or did he change his mind?
Did he decide to leave to avoid this conversation?

The thought cut through his chest just as he reached the bedroom door. He didn’t even get the chance to knock. The door opened from the inside.

François stepped out, drying his hair with a towel, damp strands falling over his forehead. He wore gray joggers slung low on his hips and a white T-shirt, slightly sheer at the shoulders from the moisture. The fabric clung to his skin, tracing the line of his collarbone and the shape of his chest.

He stopped short when he saw him there. Connor did too.

It was a shared jolt. A split second where their bodies reacted before their minds could catch up. They just stared at each other. It was only a few seconds—but they stretched, as if time had decided to stall.

Connor didn’t think. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms and wrapped his arms around François’s waist, burying his face against his chest. The impact was clumsy, almost desperate. François went rigid at first. His arms lifted in surprise, his body tense. Connor felt that suspended instant—that microsecond where everything could shatter. Then he pressed his face in deeper, turning his head slightly and resting his cheek there, breathing him in.

And François responded. His arms came down hard around Connor’s back, pulling him into a firm, warm embrace. It wasn’t polite. It was pure need. He drew him in like he’d been waiting for it. Connor closed his eyes.

For a moment, all the noise from the past few days—the contract, the video, the meeting, the suspicions—blurred under the weight of that embrace.

François pulled back just enough to look at him. It wasn’t abrupt, but it wasn’t entirely steady either. As if he’d hesitated for a fraction of a second before letting go. His hands rose to Connor’s face, cradling it between his palms still warm from the shower water. The touch was familiar—and yet, something about it felt different.

His thumbs brushed over Connor’s cheekbones with a softness that felt too deliberate, almost self-conscious. It wasn’t his usual absentminded touch—this one was almost careful. Like he was afraid Connor might pull away at any second.

Connor held him by the waist, feeling the tension in his stomach, in the way his fingers never quite relaxed against his skin. François watched him for another second, but something left something bitter in his chest. There was affection in his gaze, yes. But there was something else too—dimmer, as if that familiar spark he always had when he looked at Connor had suddenly dulled. As if he were silently weighing something. Measuring how long he could hold on to this moment before it cracked.

His eyes dipped briefly to Connor’s lips, then lifted back to his face. He hesitated. Almost imperceptibly. A blink that lingered a fraction too long—and then he kissed him.

The kiss was firm, but not urgent or desperate. Connor closed his eyes and kissed him back, pressing his body closer, searching for the certainty that had been wavering for days.

But even then—even with the familiarity of it—Connor felt something was off. He couldn’t quite name it. Only that François seemed to be holding more than just his face in his hands. Like he was carrying a decision he’d already made and still didn’t dare say out loud. Even so, Connor responded without thinking, fisting the damp fabric of his T-shirt in his hands, like he needed something solid to anchor himself and keep from tipping over.

When they pulled apart, the air between them felt heavier. Connor was the first to step back just enough to look at him. And then he felt it. Like something dropping into his stomach. Cold and heavy. François’s face no longer carried the softness of the kiss; it was tight now, his eyes slightly shadowed, like he hadn’t slept well in days. He looked tormented. And that was the reminder. He wasn’t here just to hug him or kiss him.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to see me again,” Connor murmured, his voice barely there.

François frowned immediately, genuinely confused. Connor rushed to fill the silence before that expression shifted into something else.

“I’m sorry,” he added quickly. “I’m really sorry about last time. You were right. I—” The words started tripping over each other. “I was irresponsible. Immature. I didn’t really listen to you. I focused on what didn’t matter instead of understanding what you were trying to tell me.”

François lifted a hand and slowly brushed his fingers through Connor’s hair, then down along his cheek, his jaw, to his neck—a gesture that wasn’t just affection, but a quiet way of asking him to calm down.

“Babe…” His voice came out lower, more controlled. “It’s okay.”

Connor shook his head lightly.

“No, it’s not. You opened up after holding things in for so long, and I… I reacted like a kid. I didn’t give you space. I didn’t understand what was actually hurting you.”

François studied him for a few seconds. His expression wasn’t hard—but it wasn’t entirely at ease either. There was something contained there. Something still unsaid.

Connor wondered if maybe, like him, François was just exhausted—and that they’d already had this same conversation and apology before, in other situations. Still, Connor hoped with everything in him that François could tell he was being sincere.

“It’s fine,” François said at last. “We’ll talk about it properly later.” He paused. “Did you eat anything before coming over?”

No, Connor wanted to say. Because he was almost sure that if he ate, he’d throw it up the second François started talking. And if not right then, then as soon as the conversation took its inevitable turn. He hadn’t even touched the free champagne on the plane. But he knew that if he said no, François would insist. He’d get up. Start opening the fridge. Pull out ingredients. Or order something. “So you’ve got food in you before we talk.” And Connor didn’t want to delay the inevitable.

“Yes,” he lied.

François nodded, as if registering the answer without looking too closely at it. He took Connor’s hand gently and led him toward the living room. The apartment was silent.

They sat down on the couch. François took the end near the window; late afternoon light slipped faintly through the curtains, casting long shadows across the floor. He turned his body slightly to face Connor. Connor mirrored the movement. They ended up facing each other, separated by the narrow space between them on the sofa.

“You saw social media, right?”

He went straight to it. Connor wasn’t surprised. François knew him too well to think he’d obey a “don’t look.” In fact, that “don’t look” had sounded more like a dare than a warning.

“Yeah. I did.”

The answer came without embellishment. François dropped his gaze for a second, then lifted it again. His fingers idly picked at the seam of the couch.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asked.

Connor took a slow breath. He’d made up his mind before walking in. He wasn’t going to argue. He wasn’t going to raise his voice. He wasn’t going to let pride or hurt drag him back into the same pattern as always. He had too many questions. Too many loose ends. But he didn’t want to fight. So he forced himself to keep his tone steady.

“No,” he said at last. “I really want us to talk about everything. Now.”

The word everything hung between them. The contract, the video, the distance, the silence, the omission. All of it. François nodded slowly, as if accepting the weight of that word without trying to make it smaller.

When he didn’t add anything else, Connor drew in a breath.

“Who’s the guy in the video?” he asked, feeling the question scrape against his throat. “Was it Marcus?”

There it was. Said out loud. Marcus. His ex.

Connor felt slightly ridiculous for even having this conversation. Jealous over a man whose face wasn’t even visible in the video. But the name had popped up too many times—in comments, in theories, in messages he’d received without asking for them. And Marcus wasn’t some stranger to their relationship. He and François were still in touch because of their dog. They shared responsibilities. Besides, Marcus traveled constantly for work—he was a theater actor, among other things, always moving from city to city. It wasn’t like they saw each other often. It had never been a real insecurity for Connor.

Until now.

“No,” François replied, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “I saw a lot of people saying it was him.”

Connor let out a tense huff of a laugh.

“Well…” He shrugged. “Considering the guy’s strategically hidden behind a lamppost and a bush like he’s auditioning for Guess Who?, people filled in the blanks.”

“No, it wasn’t Marcus,” François said with a sigh, as if at least that part were simple. “It was Robbie.”

“Oh.”

It was all Connor managed to say.

And suddenly everything clicked into place with uncomfortable logic. Robbie and François were going through something together right now. An imminent contract. A possible public narrative. Meetings, pressure, expectations. Of course they were talking. Of course they might’ve been arguing.

Connor felt a brief sting in his chest, more from feeling stupid than from jealousy. He’d brought up the video first, like that was the main problem—and just as he’d suspected deep down, it meant nothing.

“You looked angry,” he said, trying to justify himself without sounding accusatory. “I thought… well…”

“Yeah, I was angry,” François admitted, running a hand through his still slightly damp hair. “I shouldn’t have done it in a public place and forgetting that everyone has a phone now and can record without consent.”

Connor gave a small nod. He wasn’t arguing that.

“Why were you angry?”

The question landed heavier than the last one.

François’s body gave him away before his words did. His shoulders tightened. His breathing shifted—just slightly uneven, a rhythm Connor recognized immediately. Like he was calculating how much to say. Or how to say it. François dragged a hand down his face and rubbed both eyes with his fingers, as if pressing them might sort out whatever was spinning inside his head. The gesture was long, weighted. Not tired. Just overwhelmed.

Connor watched him for a second, feeling the air between them grow thicker.

“Fran…” he began, his voice no longer sharp. “I really don’t want to have to drag this out of you.” He leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his thighs, hands clasped too tightly together. “I’m a wreck right now. You didn’t answer my texts. Or my calls. All week I thought you’d broken up with me because you said you didn’t know where our relationship was headed.”

The words came faster as he went on, like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. He swallowed and forced himself to hold François’s gaze.

“The last thing I want is for us not to be able to talk this through. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to yell. I don’t want to repeat what happened last time.” His voice lowered slightly. “Please. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“CAA offered me a contract with their label.”

He finally said it. The words weren’t dramatic. No emphasis. But the second they left François’s mouth, Connor felt them take on weight of their own. Like they weren’t just sound, but something with edges. They climbed up his chest, pressed against his throat, then dropped and settled heavy in his stomach.

He knew. And it still hurt to hear it from him.

“It’s a good contract,” François added, meeting his eyes.

There was something in his eyes Connor couldn’t immediately place.

Guilt?

Connor held his gaze but said nothing. He wasn’t surprised. He was holding himself back. A conscious effort not to react too soon. François studied him for several long seconds. Connor’s jaw was tight. His shoulders tense. Too still.

“You already knew,” François concluded. It didn’t quite sound like a question.

Connor gave the slightest nod. Barely a movement. Almost imperceptible. François exhaled through his nose.

“What exactly do you know?” he asked, and his voice shifted—more closed off, more defensive. Connor caught it instantly. That subtle turn in tone that meant he was on shaky ground.

“I want to hear it from you,” Connor replied.

He hadn’t meant for his voice to sound like that. So flat. So stripped of inflection. But he couldn’t risk it shaking. François glanced away for a second, like the space between them had suddenly grown too tight.

“If you already know, there’s no need to spell it out,” he said, a forced lightness in his tone. As if staying vague might soften the blow.

Connor stared at him.

“Yes, there is,” he said at last—and this time there was no softness in it. “Because you didn’t tell me.” The silence that followed wasn’t explosive. It was heavier than that. Like they both understood this wasn’t just about a contract. It was about Connor finding out about something that directly affected him… from everyone except the person sitting in front of him. “And I’m still waiting for you to tell me.”

“They offered me this contract to…” François shifted on the couch, uncomfortable, like the fabric had suddenly turned hot against his skin. “You know. To sell a believable story about how Robbie and I, after filming the series, eventually…”

He trailed off. The words stalled, suspended. Not because he didn’t know how to finish them—but because saying them would make them too real. Connor didn’t blink.

“Fall in love?” he finished.

His voice was flat. Not theatrical. No surprise. No sarcasm. No obvious anger. Just stripped-down indifference.

François nodded. A minimal gesture. And Connor felt a strange hollow open in his chest, like something slowly sinking.

“Did you sign already?” Connor asked.

François shook his head.

And for one second—just one—Connor felt relief. A brief breath of air. Like there was still room to fix this.

“But I will this week.”

His breath hitched.

What?

Connor stared at him, making sure he’d heard right. For a moment, he’d believed François’s tension, the guilt in his eyes, the weight in his voice, would lead somewhere else. To a I’m not going to do it. To a I’m having doubts. To a I can’t do this to you.

But no.

“Excuse me?” Connor asked.

His voice was low. Controlled. He made a conscious effort not to raise it. He wasn’t going to start yelling. He wasn’t going to repeat last time.

“Are you serious?”

It wasn’t a challenge. It was disbelief. François held his gaze.

“It’s a huge opportunity, Connor. It’s not just a campaign. It’s positioning. International visibility. It’s… stability.”

Connor let out a short, dry laugh.

“Stability?” he repeated, and now the apathy was cracking into something rougher. “Stability for who?”

François frowned.

“For my career. For the project. For everything that comes after.”

Connor watched him for a few more seconds.

“And for us?” he asked finally.

François looked away briefly. Then he leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, hands clasped tight. He wasn’t dodging it anymore. He was in it now.

“Connor, I’m forty years old,” he said. No dramatics. No softening either. “Forty. I’ve been in this industry for nineteen years. I’ve done theater, television, indie films. I’ve had good runs, sure. But I’ve also had months where the phone didn’t ring. And you know how this works.”

Connor opened his mouth, but François lifted a hand slightly, signaling for him to let him finish.

“Leading man roles, big contracts, major campaigns… they give those to guys who are twenty-six, twenty-eight, thirty. New faces. New bodies. Fresh storylines. At forty, you’re not ‘the young lead’ anymore. You’re the mentor. The secondary love interest. The guy who shows up for three episodes and disappears.”

His voice wasn’t bitter. Just matter-of-fact.

“This offer isn’t just some made-up story. It’s international visibility. Constant press. Interviews. Covers. It’s positioning. Making sure that when I’m forty-two, forty-five, they still remember my name.”

Connor shook his head slightly.

“You don’t need it. You’ve accomplished so much without that.”

François let out a short laugh, humorless.

“You don’t know that.” The sentence was direct. Not cruel. But firm. “In less than a year, you achieved four times more than I’ve managed in years. Four times as much, Connor..”

Connor stiffened.

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It means your trajectory isn’t comparable to mine,” François cut in. “You blew up at the perfect moment. Perfect age. Perfect image. Perfect market. I’m not saying you don’t work hard. You do. A lot. But your starting point and mine aren’t the same.”

The silence thickened.

“If you think about it professionally,” François continued, calmer now, “you don’t get to tell me it’s easy. Or that I don’t need this. Because doors swung open for you overnight. I’ve spent years pushing them open.” Connor’s jaw tightened, and François held his gaze. “It’s not just a romantic storyline. It’s a strategy. And if I don’t take it, someone else will. And I’ll be sitting there watching another guy take a spot that could’ve been mine.”

There was no arrogance in his tone. There was fear. A different kind of fear than Connor’s. Fear of becoming irrelevant.

“I’m not doing this to hurt you,” he added, softer now. “I’m doing it because I have to think long-term about my career. Because I don’t have twenty more years to fuck around and make mistakes.”

Connor listened without interrupting. He absorbed every word, every number, every fear dressed up as logic. But something inside him started to simmer—slow and steady.

“I know it’s your professional life, but…” Connor shifted on the couch, shifting on the couch, trying to steady himself before continuing. “Isn’t this the kind of decision you talk through with your partner? I mean, you’re not single. Even if it’s ‘professional,’ it affects me directly.”

“I want you to think very carefully about the question I’m about to ask,” François said. “What’s the difference between what I’d be doing with Robbie and what you’ve been doing with Hudson?”

“What?” Connor felt the air leave his lungs.

“Is there a difference?” François repeated.

Connor looked at him like he didn’t recognize the man sitting in front of him. Like the question wasn’t just unfair—it was fucking absurd. He struggled to breathe for a second.

“Of course there is,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, incredulous but tight with tension. “Of course there is, Fran.”

He straightened slightly on the couch, hands open over his thighs, trying to line up his thoughts before letting them spill.

“We’ve never implied we’re in love. We’ve never gone out there and said we are. We’ve always said the same thing—that we’re best friends. And that’s true.” He swallowed. “I’ve never denied that I’m seeing you. I could, yeah. I could say I’m single, that I don’t have anyone. I can’t confirm it, but I don’t deny it either. I keep it ambiguous because it’s the only way to protect us without pretending you’re not with me.”

He held his gaze now, steady.

“Doesn’t that make us… private, but not secret?” he asked, almost needing François to understand the difference. “Not hidden. Not clandestine. Just… ours.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“Whatever people decide to imagine after that isn’t on me. I can’t control internet fantasies. I can’t shut down fan delusions. But I’ve never signed anything to feed that narrative. I’ve never gotten paid for it.”

His breathing grew heavier as he spoke.

“In fact, when all of that got out of control… when the bigger theories started blowing up… Huddy and I made the decision not to attend the same events. Remember? We publicly distanced ourselves. We stopped doing certain things together because we understood that keeping it up would only make things worse.”

His voice dropped a notch.

“They offered us the exact same thing. The same thing. A more polished version, but the same fucking thing. And we said no. Not just because we didn’t want to sell our friendship like it was a fucking product. Not just because it felt like shit to turn something that important into a marketing strategy.”

He looked at him directly.

“It was also about respect. Respect for our partners. Respect for you. Respect for Kiley.”

The name lingered between them.

Connor felt the weight of what he was saying—but he didn’t stop.

“I never asked you whether I should turn it down,” he admitted, quieter now. “Because I wasn’t going to accept it. It wasn’t even up for debate. But I did tell you when it happened. I told you CAA had proposed it. I told you because even if it was a professional decision, I knew it affected you. I knew you deserved to know.”

The silence tightened again.

“That’s the difference, Fran,” he added finally, with a firmness he hadn’t had before. “I’m not asking you to live with a lie built around my love life. I’m not negotiating a fake love story with someone else while I’m in a relationship with you.”

His voice didn’t rise. But it deepened.

“It’s not the same to walk red carpets with my best friend as it is to sign a contract to pretend I’m in love with someone else. And if you can’t see that difference… then we’re not even arguing about the same thing.”

“Yes. You’re right,” François said at last. “I’m sorry.” He buried his face in his hands. “Fuck. I’m sorry, babe. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

“This isn’t just ‘visibility’ and ‘positioning,’” Connor continued, his voice controlled in a way that made it obvious he was consciously holding himself together. “It’s a public narrative. It’s selling that you and Robbie fall in love after the series. It’s feeding interviews, headlines, rumors, off-camera chemistry.” He swallowed. His voice tightened. “Do you know what that means for me?”

The silence stretched.

“It means that if one day we ever wanted to go public…” Connor made a vague gesture between them. “This—us—people won’t see it as honest. They’ll see me as the guy who stole his co-star’s boyfriend.” The sentence landed raw. “The villain. The third party. The one who ‘showed up after.’”

François looked away for a second. Connor caught it.

“And don’t tell me that doesn’t matter,” he added. “Because it does. In this industry, everything matters. Narratives matter. First impressions matter. What gets planted in people’s heads matters.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, mirroring the posture François had had minutes earlier. “It’s not just that you’re selling a story. It’s that the story erases us.” The air felt heavier. “And even if it’s acting—even if it’s strategy—I don’t want to watch my boyfriend pretend to belong to someone else in real life. I don’t want to open Instagram and see you on covers talking about ‘what sparked on set.’ I don’t want interviews where you hint at shit. I don’t want to watch people look at you like you’re a couple while I have to stay quiet because it’s ‘strategic.’” His jaw tightened. “It’s not just your career, Fran. It’s my relationship too.”

“You don’t have to explain everything you just said,” François replied.

He didn’t say it mockingly. He didn’t say it with irony. He said it with a calmness that was worse.

“It’s what I live every day in our relationship.”

The sentence dropped hard.

Connor felt the air leave his lungs, like someone had opened a valve in his chest. Because it was true. Even if he’d never signed anything. Even if he’d never actively fed the narrative with Hudson. The scenario he had just described—the ambiguity, the theories, the edits, the awkward interviews—that was François’s daily reality.

He was the one living that alone.

Connor lowered his gaze for a second. He didn’t have an immediate answer that didn’t sound defensive.

“Maybe…” François continued, shifting on the couch, running a hand along the back of his neck like he was trying to piece the thought together before saying it. “Maybe this is good. After all.”

There were nerves in his voice. Not certainty. It sounded like someone trying to convince himself as he spoke.

“What do you mean?” Connor asked, a new edge of alertness in his tone.

François lifted his shoulders slightly, like he was explaining something practical. Strategic.

“If suddenly there are these rumors… this idea that I’m with Robbie…” He made a vague motion with his hand. “It’ll give us some breathing room for a while.”

Connor blinked.

“Breathing room?”

“Yeah.” François leaned forward slightly. “Think about it. If the focus shifts. If the public narrative shifts. If the headlines stop being ‘Connor and François’ and start being something different… you and I can breathe.”

Connor stared at him without blinking.

“We won’t have to be so fucking careful about every little thing,” François continued. “Maybe we can loosen up online. Post a picture without half the comments being about whether you’re dating me or whether I’m getting between you and Hudson. Because in theory, I’d already have someone. Maybe we could go out to dinner without someone filming from a corner trying to confirm some theory.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Maybe we could exist a little more normally.”

Connor felt something twist in his chest. It wasn’t relief. It was something knotted and uneasy. Because part of him understood the exhaustion behind those words. Understood how draining it had to be to occupy the role of the “invisible boyfriend” while the world paired your partner with someone else. But another part—

“And the cost of that?” he asked quietly.

François held his gaze.

“It’s acting, Connor.”

“Not when it’s sold as real.”

The silence thickened.

“What you’re proposing isn’t just shifting the focus. It’s building a story. A story where you’re in love with someone else. Where you smile with him on red carpets. Where you give interviews about your ‘chemistry.’ Where people start investing in you two.” He looked up at him. “And we hide behind that waiting for people to ‘leave us alone.’”

François didn’t respond right away.

“Do you really think that’s going to protect us?” Connor pressed. “Or do you think it’s just going to make the fallout worse when one day we decide we’re done hiding?”

His voice didn’t carry anger anymore. It carried something more fragile.

“Because if you do this, Fran… it’s not just that the narrative changes. It’s that we become the actual secret.”

Connor held François’s gaze a second longer than necessary, as if searching his expression for any sign that there was still room to step back. But what he saw wasn’t doubt. It was exhaustion. It was ambition tangled with fear. It was that quiet determination of someone who’s already made a decision and is just waiting for the right moment to go through with it.

And that hurt more than any argument.

Because talking about them—about their relationship, about what they shared—hadn’t been enough for François to discard the idea immediately. It hadn’t been a I wouldn’t even consider it. It had been an evaluation.

And Connor understood. Too well.

He knew how hard François had worked for years. The rejected auditions. The supporting roles. The projects that never took off. The seasons spent waiting for something big to finally happen. Connor had arrived like a fucking hurricane in comparison. In less than a year he’d stacked covers, campaigns, headlines. Not because he deserved it more—but because of timing, because of chemistry with the audience, because sometimes this industry just arbitrarily decides who to spotlight.

How was he supposed to judge him?

Part of him wanted to say the whole strategy was insulting to his career. That selling a manufactured romance for attention cheapened everything he’d built. That he didn’t need that. That he shouldn’t need that.

But the words caught in his throat.

Because François had already pointed out the difference in their careers. Had already made it clear Connor wasn’t the one who got to say it’s easy. And Connor didn’t want to sound naïve. Didn’t want to sound clueless about his own privilege..

What he could see—and couldn’t ignore—was how desperate François had to be to even consider something like this.

“You’re going to sign, aren’t you?” Connor asked finally.

It didn’t sound like a question. It sounded like a quiet conclusion. François exhaled, long and tired.

“Do you realize this doesn’t just affect me personally, but could also have consequences depending on what CAA decides to do against me… or against Hudson?”

“I would never do anything that harms you. If they go after you in any way, I’ll walk away from all of it.”

“mmh”

“I don’t want to hurt you. If this means that much to you, I won’t do it.”

Connor felt a strange knot tighten in his chest.

It wasn’t relief.

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “You can’t pass on it because of me. I don’t want that on me. I don’t want you looking at me five years from now thinking you lost something because of me.”

François frowned.

“That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

“But that’s what it’ll turn into,” Connor replied, a small, sad smile tugging at his mouth. Almost resigned. “If you don’t sign, it’ll always hang over us—that you didn’t because I asked you not to. And I don’t want to be that. I don’t want to be the thing that held you back.”

Silence settled between them again. Connor ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and held François’s gaze with painful honesty.

“I understand why you want to do it. I really do. You haven’t even asked what I actually feel… but I don’t agree.” The confession hung in the air. “I don’t agree,” he repeated, softer. “But if it’s that important to you…” He gave the slightest shrug. “Good luck.”

François seemed to understand the weight of those words too quickly. He closed the distance between them and grabbed Connor’s hands with an urgency that bordered on desperation.

“What do you mean?” he asked, brow furrowed, fingers tightening around his as if he were afraid Connor might disappear in front of him. “I need to know… would you stay with me anyway?”

Connor looked at him. There was something tired in his eyes now—no longer anger. Just exhaustion.

“Don’t you think this just pushed us closer to that point you mentioned before?” he said, his voice barely steady. “The one where you said you didn’t know where this was headed?”

He swallowed. The next part cost him more.

“I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, Fran. I love you. I want you to get everything you want. I want you to succeed, to keep growing, for the world to see what I see.” He paused for a second. “But right now… it’s hard for me to picture a future with you.”

The words hung between them, fragile enough to shatter at the slightest movement.

“No,” François said immediately, shaking his head. “It doesn’t have to be like that. It can just be for as long as the series runs. Couples who meet on set usually fade once the project ends. It’s temporary.”

Connor let out a humorless laugh.

“And then I date you?” he asked, tilting his head. “Like some opportunistic fucking climber waiting for you to be available?”

François’s expression tightened.

“We weren’t planning to go public until at least the end of season three,” he said quickly, like he’d been holding onto that solution. “We have time. We can manage it. We can stop people from twisting it. Please…”

That please was raw. A plea stripped of pride.

Something inside Connor cracked.

Not because François was asking—but because he could see that he genuinely believed this was the only way. And Connor understood. He understood so much it hurt.

He knew what François had already sacrificed. He knew how many times he’d swallowed his insecurities over Hudson. How many conversations François had been the one to initiate. How often he’d been the one exposing his skin for both of them. Connor had fucked up plenty of times. He’d been clumsy. Oblivious. Defensive. And now, sitting in front of him, was a man willing to sell a narrative to save his career.

Connor felt it in his chest. Real and sharp. A pressure in the center of his chest, like something inside was giving way.

He knew he wouldn’t survive watching François build a romantic storyline with another man. He knew every interview, every cover, every rehearsed look would cut.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Connor whispered, lifting a hand to rest his fingers against François’s cheek.

The touch was soft. Intimate.

“I was scared,” François answered quietly.

Connor repeated it, like he needed to taste it.

“You were scared…”

He smiled gently, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The knot in his throat tightened until it became unbearable. He tried to hold it back. He couldn’t.

The tears came without drama—silent, like surrender.

He was crying because he didn’t want this. Crying because he still understood why François did. Crying because there were so many things he wished he’d done differently. Because at some point, he’d been the one who made François feel like he wasn’t enough. Because he knew this strategy erased him, pushed him into some future shadow—and still, part of him thought maybe giving in was the least he could do.

He’d asked for understanding so many times.

Maybe it was his turn to give it.

“I hope this stupid fucking thing gives you everything you deserve,” he said through tears, without bitterness. “I really want the best for you. You deserve the best.”

The words didn’t sound resigned.

They sounded broken.

And deep down, Connor knew that if it hurt this much… it probably wasn’t right.

***

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Hudson’s voice wasn’t loud. It was worse—low, ice-cold, scraping out of his throat. Connor exhaled slowly and leaned his back against the wall of Hudson’s room, like he needed something solid behind him to keep from swaying.

The silence that followed stretched into something uncomfortable.

Hudson stood by the minibar, twisting open a bottle of flavored water with more force than necessary. The plastic crackled under his fingers. His shoulders were tight, neck stiff, jaw clenched.

“You’re not some goddamn charity case, Connor,” he spat, finally turning toward him. “Why the hell would you agree to something like that?”

Connor closed his eyes for a second.

“Can you just calm down for a second?” he asked, sounding tired more than irritated.

“No, actually. I can’t.” Hudson made a sharp gesture with his hand, like he was swatting the air away. “Fuck this.”

He started moving around the room. It wasn’t exactly pacing. It was like his body was looking for an exit it couldn’t find. Two steps. Stop. Hand through his hair. Turn. Too much energy with nowhere to go. Connor watched him without moving.

“Maybe he has a point,” Connor said finally. “Maybe something good could come out of it.”

Hudson let out a short, dismissive huff of laughter.

“Yeah, sure.” He shook his head several times. “What a brilliant plan. What a fucking genius strategy.”

He turned toward him again, and this time the anger wasn’t even half-hidden.

“I can’t believe he even had the nerve to ask you.” He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, holding himself back. “And I’m not surprised you said yes. Jesus Christ, you’re about to give Mother Teresa a run for her money.”

Connor frowned but didn’t answer.

“You’re not a fucking saint, Connor. You’re human.” Hudson pointed at him from head to toe. “Look at you. You’re barely recovering from the goddamn fight you had and you’re already back like this, eady to swallow whatever he throws at you, so he doesn’t lose anything.”

The sentence hung there. Hudson opened his mouth to keep going—but stopped. Something in Connor’s expression pulled him up short.

“No, no…” he corrected himself quickly, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. You don’t need this shit from me right now. I’m sorry.”

He set the bottle down on the dresser near the TV with a dull thud—not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough. Then he leaned back against the opposite wall, mirroring Connor’s posture while keeping distance. Like he was afraid getting closer would make him say something worse.

“It’s not fair,” Hudson said finally, quieter.

It wasn’t an accusation. It was a fact.

Connor lifted his gaze.

“What isn’t fair?”

Hudson took a moment before answering. He looked up at the ceiling, like he was searching for the right words.

“Maybe I’m just pissed at him right now and that’s clouding how I see him.” His voice wasn’t cold anymore. It was loaded. “But don’t you think it was a little selfish to say you’re not the one who gets to talk because you blew up fast? Doesn’t that sound like a jealous asshole resenting his partner’s success? He’s scared of falling behind in his career and somehow you’re the one who has to pay the emotional price. That’s bullshit. The solution is for you to shrink a little so he can shine brighter? That’s fucked up.”

Connor felt it again in his chest.—but this time it wasn’t because of François. It was because of Hudson.

“I’m not shrinking,” he muttered, though he knew he’d used similar words himself before. Hudson looked at him directly. “Not professionally.”

“Oh, really?” Hudson asked, dangerously calm. “What do you think is going to happen when they start selling that story? When people start tagging you as the third wheel? When you have to pretend nothing’s going on?”

Connor swallowed.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it’s not simple,” Hudson shot back, exasperated. “None of this is. But one thing is clear: you shouldn’t have to agree to something that breaks your chest open just to prove you know how to love someone properly.”

Silence fell again. Connor looked down at the floor.

“I’ve screwed up a lot,” he said quietly. “I made him feel insecure. I made him feel second more than once. Maybe this…” He shrugged. “Maybe this is a way to balance it out.”

Hudson’s jaw tightened.

“Relationships aren’t bookkeeping,” he said, softer now. “You don’t balance them out with equivalent sacrifices. That’s not how it works.”

Connor looked up at him. Hudson was frustrated, yes. Angry too. But underneath all of that was worry. Fear. Helplessness.

“I don’t want you turning into collateral damage for someone else’s ambition,” Hudson added finally.

Connor tried to smile. It didn’t fully land.

“I’m not as fragile as I look. Or at least not as fragile as you seem to think I am..”

Hudson held his gaze for a few seconds longer.

“I know,” he said. “And that’s exactly why it pisses me off more. A relationship built on sacrifices—on sacrifices that hurt you, that you can’t actually carry—what’s the point of clinging to that? And I’m not just talking about you. I mean both of you. When did you start romanticizing that dynamic?”

Connor didn’t answer right away. He just held Hudson’s gaze—steady, deep—like he wasn’t just listening to the words but dismantling them in silence, searching for what Hudson wasn’t saying, the things Hudson never said out loud. There was no challenge in his eyes. But there was no submission either. Just an uncomfortable, piercing attention.

“Neither of you owes the other anything,” Hudson said finally, with a calmness that felt rehearsed. “He made those choices because… I don’t know, I guess he loves you. And he decided on his own that it was the right thing. But you—no one—should live feeling indebted all the time for the sacrifices their partner or friends choose to make. It’s not about being altruistic. It’s about the fact that we’re not responsible for the sacrifices other people decide to make.”

The words landed slowly. Measured. Almost rational.

Connor watched him, and for a second Hudson felt the instinct to cut himself off before Connor could speak. He knew that look too well. Whenever Connor’s face went that still, whatever came next wasn’t going to be something he wanted to hear.

He wasn’t wrong.

“Isn’t that the reason you’re still with Kiley after everything?”

The hit was clean. Straight to the center of his chest.

Hudson felt it like Connor had physically shoved him. His breath caught in his throat, and for a second he didn’t even know if he’d heard right.

Kiley.

Her name dropped like a stone into a lake he’d been trying not to look at.

He’d buried her deep—down in that place where you put the things that hurt too much to look at. The guilt followed him like a shadow. The feeling that he’d broken something irreparable. The unanswered calls. The read receipts with no reply. The image of her avoiding his eyes. And the fear—bigger than all of it—that maybe he’d already lost her.

If he let himself fully feel it, he knew he wouldn’t get out of bed for days.

“What?” Hudson managed, but the word came out hollow. He couldn’t add anything else. He felt blindsided. Because the way Connor had just turned the conversation wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t.

Hudson had promised himself he wouldn’t turn into that friend—the one who only points out everything wrong with your partner every time you fight.— He’d tried to stay neutral. Respectful. Even when François exasperated him. Even when it felt like he was asking too much of Connor.

And now, right when he couldn’t stomach it anymore—when it felt impossible to pretend this was fine—Connor threw that at him.

“Yeah,” Connor continued. No sharpness. No sarcasm. His tone stayed even, but his body was tight; shoulders slightly raised, hands restless, knocking lightly against each other. “Every time you talk about Kiley, you mention everything she’s done for you. How much she supported you. How unconditional she was. Isn’t that gratitude what keeps you there? Isn’t that also a kind of debt?”

Hudson felt something twist hard in his stomach.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, lower than he intended.

“Yes. I do, Huddy,” Connor replied, and though his voice didn’t rise, his gaze hardened slightly. “This whole time I’ve prioritized you over my boyfriend. Because you’re my best friend. I always let what he and I had fall to second place.” He made a brief, frustrated gesture with his hands. “I even bought the damn bracelet when he asked me not to. Do you get that?”

Hudson opened his mouth, still breathing unevenly.

“That fucking bracelet—”

“No.” Connor lifted a hand just enough to stop him. “Listen. It might seem unfair to you. But tell me something… didn’t you give things up for Kiley because she did first? Didn’t you rethink our boundaries because of her? Didn’t you make hard decisions because you felt like you owed her something?”

“It’s not the same,” Hudson whispered, almost out of air.

It was a mistake.

Connor’s head snapped up immediately. Something in his expression shifted, like that sentence had struck a nerve worn too thin.

“Why do you always do that?” he asked, and now there was frustration in his voice. “Every single time, in every fucking argument between you and me, when there’s a parallel between my relationship with François and your relationship with Kiley, you say the same thing: ‘It’s not the same.’”

Hudson opened his mouth—but Connor didn’t give him room.

“What makes it different?” Connor pressed, leaning forward slightly. “What? That a straight relationship has some built-in right to experience certain things that a gay relationship doesn’t?”

“What?” The disbelief in Hudson’s voice was immediate—almost offended. The accusation sounded so absurd that for a second he didn’t even know how to process it.

“Then tell me,” Connor continued, not raising his voice but with his eyes burning now. “Because I don’t understand why you keep insisting that what happens in my relationship is somehow different from what happens in yours, when I don’t see the difference.”

Hudson felt heat crawl up his neck, spread across his chest.

It wasn’t just anger… It was… shame.

Because yes, he had drawn lines before. He’d talked about context. About public pressure. About exposure. About the narrative that surrounded Connor and François being different from his own life.

But he had never thought about it in terms of orientation. Of identity. That felt ridiculous. And still… Connor’s words didn’t bounce off completely.

Because if he was honest—brutally honest—there was something deeper. Something he’d never wanted to look at head-on.

Maybe, somewhere in the back of his mind, he had assumed that what Connor felt for François didn’t carry the same weight as what he felt for Kiley.

Maybe, without meaning to, he’d minimized it.

Not out of malice. But because his place next to Connor had always been so central that imagining someone else occupying an equivalent space felt wrong.

Fuck.

Maybe he’d even unconsciously believed that what Connor felt for him was stronger than what he felt for his boyfriend.

Or maybe he’d been egocentric enough to think that what he had with Kiley was different because they’d been together since high school—as if Connor’s year and a half with François didn’t carry the same gravity.

The realization washed over him. He felt ridiculous. And horrible.

“I love her,” Hudson said finally, barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t a defense. It wasn’t a counterattack. It was a naked confession.

The reason he stayed. The reason he’d tried to fix things. The reason the guilt weighed so much.

Connor didn’t hesitate.

“And I love him.”

“Do you love him,” Hudson asked, “or did you just get used to being with him?”

“Do you love her,” Connor shot back, “or are you scared to end it because you feel like you owe her your loyalty for everything she’s done for you?” His jaw tightened. “Yes. I love him.”

“I love her.”

Hudson held his gaze—and for a fraction of a second he was terrified his face would betray him. That Connor would see the storm that had just ripped open inside him.

A dangerous thought flashed through his head. To ask him if he loved François the way he loved him. If the intensity was the same. If there had ever been confusion between them. If he was really sure he loved François that much.

But the answer slammed into him before the question could fully form:

You’re his friend. François is his boyfriend.

He swallowed the words before they could exist. He dropped his gaze. His heart was pounding so hard against his ribs it made him nauseous. It felt like something was trying to claw its way out and he had to shove it back down.

It had only been a few days since he’d dared to name what he felt for Connor. Not a month. Days.

And yet the word had settled into his body like an uncomfortable truth—impossible to ignore. It wasn’t that the feeling had been born then.

It had surfaced.

Like something that had been submerged for far too long, finally finding a crack wide enough to break through.

Hudson knew it hadn’t been sudden. It wasn’t like he’d woken up one morning and—boom—suddenly had feelings for Connor. There had been a trigger. Something that forced him to look at himself with nowhere to run. And when he did, he realized it had been growing quietly for far longer than he’d ever wanted to admit.

If he tried to trace the origin, he got lost.

He didn’t know when Connor’s laugh had stopped being just familiar and started feeling necessary. He didn’t know when he began noticing the way Connor’s jaw tightened when he was pissed, or the way his eyes lit up when he talked about something he loved. He didn’t know when the instinct to protect him stopped being brotherly and started aching in his chest.

And, deep down, he didn’t want to know.

Because going down that road meant accepting it wasn’t temporary. That it wasn’t a byproduct of the fight with François or the distance from Kiley. It meant admitting he’d been feeling more than he should for a long time.

Watching Connor love someone else was the only thing keeping him grounded. Watching him defend his relationship. Hearing him say I love him without hesitation. Noticing the way his voice shifted when he talked about François. All of it was a brutal reminder of the line.

Nothing was going to happen between them.

Because Connor had already chosen where his heart lived.

“Forgive me,” Hudson said finally, softer.

Connor frowned. “For what?”

Hudson let out a shaky breath.

“Every time I’ve comforted you, I’ve always said the same thing: ‘You love him, he loves you, it’s obvious.’” He tried to smile, but it barely formed. “I don’t think I ever actually took it seriously.” He dragged a hand down his face, uncomfortable in his own skin. “God… I’m so fucking selfish.”

He didn’t say it looking for absolution. He wasn’t expecting Connor to reassure him or tell him he was wrong. He said it because, for the first time, the truth had shown up unfiltered—and he couldn’t look away.

His anger hadn’t just been protection. It hadn’t only been outrage over the contract or how unfair it felt that Connor had to endure something like that. He’d dressed it up as logic. As rational arguments. As genuine concern. He’d convinced himself he was defending his friend.

But it wasn’t just that.

It hurt that Connor was still with François. That even after the tears, after everything they’d said, he hadn’t broken up with him.

Hudson realized, in that moment, he was jealous.

The word cut through his chest like a late confession. Jealous of a man who had every right to be there. Jealous of a relationship that, whether he liked it or not, was real. Jealous of a place that wasn’t his.

His stomach dropped with an ugly mix of shame and defeat. There was nothing heroic about it. Nothing noble. Just a quiet, selfish wish that things were different.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Connor said after a few seconds, trying to lighten what had just tightened between them. “I just wanted to understand why you kept saying it wasn’t the same.”

Hudson nodded slowly. He ran his tongue over his lips before speaking, like he needed to organize his thoughts so he wouldn’t screw up again.

“I guess I was a little egocentric,” he admitted, “to assume it couldn’t be the same. Because she and I have been together longer… maybe I thought, in a really immature way, that a year and a half couldn’t weigh the same as over six.”

Connor tilted his head slightly, like he was evaluating the confession without judgment.

“I guess there are differences,” he conceded. “Love evolves. It changes.” He made a small face, almost boyish, that didn’t match the heaviness of the moment. “I think he and I are in that stage where everything feels more intense. Like you feel everything twice.. Maybe our love hasn’t evolved that much yet. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love him.”

“Yeah, but…” Hudson murmured.

The but hung between them before he finished it.

Connor looked up, waiting.

Hudson held his gaze a second too long. The intensity in his eyes forced Connor to breathe deeper.

“You’re… so fucking good,” Hudson said, then shook his head at how that sounded. He corrected himself, voice lower. “You’re such a good person. You care so much about other people, about the people you love, that I don’t want you agreeing to something that’s going to hurt you.”

He exhaled, shoulders dropping.

“You’re a grown man. No one should question your decisions, I know that. But there is a difference I can point out right now: I never had to accept something that made me suffer just to keep my relationship working. I never had to swallow something that hurt me. And Kiley wouldn’t have let me.”

Connor seemed to absorb that more deeply than Hudson expected. His lips trembled slightly before he lowered his head, like he didn’t want Hudson to see the crack forming in his expression.

“I’m not trying to atone,” Connor said, still staring at the floor. “I hurt him so much that… this is a way to fix it.”

It didn’t sound firm. It sounded tired.

Hudson stepped closer without thinking. Just enough that his voice softened, turned intimate.

“What happens if one day it becomes unbearable for you?” he asked gently. Not as a challenge. As a warning. “Will you tell him?”

Connor didn’t answer. The silence was answer enough. Hudson knew it.

“You won’t,” he continued quietly, because the picture was already clear in his mind. “You’ll swallow it. You’ll tell yourself you agreed, that you gave your word, and now you can’t back out.”

He moved a fraction closer. He didn’t touch him—but he was close enough to.

“Connie…” Hudson said again, that blend of tenderness and firmness only he used with him. “It’s not right for you to sacrifice yourself like this.”

Connor kept his head down for a few seconds longer before replying. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t defensive anymore. It was exhausted.

“It’s what he’s done for a long time… and I never fully understood it.” He offered a small, sad smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “He’s endured so much for this relationship… so much noise, so much insecurity… and all I cared about was making sure you and I were okay.” He dragged a hand down his face, like the gesture could ease the pressure in his chest. “I couldn’t even listen to him during our last fight. All I did was bring you up.” A bitter breath escaped him. “Somehow I made it all his fault.”

Hudson watched him in silence. He could see the weight of that realization settling into his posture—shoulders lower, jaw tight, fingers laced too hard together.

“But you understand that now,” Hudson said softly. “You apologized.”

Connor lifted his eyes, and for a second there was something rough there.

Not anger at Hudson. Anger at himself.

“Are apologies enough?”

The tone wasn’t aggressive. It was bitter. Bitterness turned inward, like he was judging himself harder than anyone else ever had.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was heavy. Connor took a deep breath, but it didn’t reach..

“Because saying ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t change that he spent months feeling second,” he added more quietly. “It doesn’t change that I didn’t see it. Or that I didn’t want to.”

Hudson felt a sharp pull in his stomach. He wanted to answer immediately, to contradict him, to lift some of the weight off his chest. But something in Connor’s expression stopped him. He didn’t need reassurance. He needed to understand what he’d broken.

Connor lowered his gaze again.

“Maybe this is the only way I have to show him I see it now.”

And that was the problem. He wasn’t talking about love. He was talking about compensation.

Hudson stepped back just enough to see him clearly. He cupped Connor’s face between his hands for a moment—not to hold him in place, just to look at him.

He’d always compared Connor to the sun. Not as some exaggerated metaphor. It was real. Connor lit up rooms.He walked into a room and something shifted. His laughter expanded outward, contagious. His energy filled awkward silences and made everything feel lighter.

But over the past few months, that light had started to dim.

Since things with François had begun to crack, Hudson had noticed it. It hadn’t been dramatic. It was subtle at first. Dark circles that didn’t disappear after a good night’s sleep. Smiles that took a split second longer to appear. Laughs that died too quickly. Now, if he was honest, Connor spent more time staring off into nothing than laughing.

There was a constant tension in his jaw. A stiffness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. Even when he tried to look calm, his body betrayed him: restless fingers, uneven breathing, that new habit of biting the inside of his cheek when he thought too much.

Hudson saw all of it.

And that was what hurt most.

It wasn’t just the possibility of losing him romantically—that battle had been lost before it ever began. It was watching him dim. Watching that natural brightness, that internal fire, erode under the strain of a relationship that, even if it was full of love, was also full of wear.

Hudson didn’t fully blame either of them.

Or maybe he did—but equally.

He didn’t know François the way he knew Connor. He didn’t know how he thought when he was alone or what ghosts he carried from before this relationship. But you didn’t need to be a behavioral expert to see something had twisted between them. This wasn’t a single crisis. It was erosion. They were hurting each other without meaning to.

Connor—stubborn, with his impulse to overcompensate, making unbalanced decisions that impacted his partner.

And François—more rigid, more contained, unable to handle his insecurities without turning them into veiled demands. He wasn’t a villain. He was scared. But fear handled badly still hurts.

The age gap had never truly been an issue. Not at the beginning. They had too much in common. They could talk for hours without exhausting each other. Connor had always been curious—obsessively so. He read everything he could get his hands on. Politics, art, history, cinema. He had this constant hunger to learn that made him seem older than he was. He wasn’t naïve. He was sharp, cultured, surprisingly mature for his age. He matched François easily. Held his own in deep conversations. Challenged him intellectually.

Hudson knew that. He admired it.

But now he wondered if all that maturity François possessed dissolved inside the relationship. Because having life experience wasn’t the same as knowing how to love well. François had endured a lot, yes. He’d tolerated comments, rumors, insecurities. But enduring wasn’t the same as communicating. And more than once, he’d let resentment build until it exploded.

That was what infuriated Hudson.

Not the jealousy. Not the fear.

But the way difficulties were handled—expecting too much, speaking too late, letting wounds turn into long silences that later became reproach. Connor, on the other hand, reacted before he thought.

And in that collision of dynamics, they both lost.

Hudson saw it with almost cruel clarity. And it frustrated him that he couldn’t do anything without becoming the enemy.

He brushed his thumb lightly along Connor’s cheekbone. He was still his sun. But now he looked like one covered in clouds.

“I want to try,” Connor said finally.

The words came out small. Fragile. Like a kid who’d just been scolded and was trying to explain why he still insisted on something he knew might hurt him. There was no defiance in his voice. Just a desperate need to be understood.

Hudson tilted his head slightly, studying him.

“Are you sure?” he asked, brow faintly furrowed, though his expression stayed gentle. “I’ll respect whatever you decide.”

Connor didn’t answer with words.

He stepped forward and grabbed Hudson by the hips, pulling him closer with a firmness that wasn’t aggressive—but wasn’t hesitant either. It was deliberate. Like he needed to erase whatever space still existed between them.

Connor’s back brushed the wall as he moved that last inch, ending up pressed against it while guiding Hudson into him. He boxed himself in.

With Hudson close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest, Connor leaned forward and rested his forehead against Hudson’s shoulder.

It wasn’t calculated.

It was exhaustion looking for something solid.

His hands stayed at Hudson’s hips, holding him with a mix of need and anchoring—like if he let go, everything would fall apart.

The cold wall at his back contrasted with the warmth of Hudson’s body in front of him. Connor exhaled, and the warm breath slipped through the fabric of Hudson’s shirt, grazing his skin. Hudson could feel the slight weight of Connor’s forehead there, the uneven rhythm of his breathing against his collarbone, the way his fingers never fully relaxed.

Hudson inhaled.

The citrus scent that always clung to Connor—fresh tangerine, soft soap—filled his lungs. Something inside him softened instantly.

He lifted his right arm and slid his hand to the back of Connor’s head, threading his fingers slowly through his hair. The motion was almost automatic.

Connor’s arms slid around his waist, and he turned his head, nestling his face into the curve of Hudson’s neck.

Hudson felt the tip of Connor’s nose brush his skin.

The slightest touch. Intimate. Too intentional.

For a second he thought he’d imagined it.

But no.

Connor inhaled.

It was subtle—almost imperceptible—but Hudson recognized it immediately. Like that time on his couch. Like the first night they’d shared a bed in Toronto.

His skin prickled instantly—not from cold. His body reacted before his mind could catch up. A shiver ran down his spine, tightened his abdomen. His pulse sped up. His breathing shortened.

This was dangerous.

Hudson decided he needed to step back before his body started saying things it shouldn’t.

Gently—far too gently for what he was starting to feel.—he tried to pull away.

But as he did, Connor’s face slid along his neck, grazing part of his chest, like he was heavier than he should’ve been.

Connor didn’t let go.

His hands stayed firm at Hudson’s waist, holding him like he was afraid that if he did, everything would fall apart.

Hudson swallowed when Connor lifted his head.

They were only inches apart. Too close. The tip of Connor’s nose brushed his in an almost imperceptible brush—barely there, yet enough to make the air between them turn thick and unmovable. Holding each other’s gaze at that distance was uncomfortable, intimate in a way that didn’t allow escape. And still, neither of them looked away.

Connor’s uneven breath hit Hudson’s lips. Warm. Unsteady. Hudson was painfully aware that his own breath was mingling with Connor’s, that they were sharing the same air in a space so tight it felt like the rest of the room had disappeared. His heart started pounding hard enough to bruise his ribs, like it was trying to break free.

The hand that had been resting in Connor’s hair slid down to his cheek. It wasn’t deliberate—it was instinct. His fingers settled there, feeling the warmth of his skin, the faint tremor along his jaw. Connor tightened his grip at Hudson’s waist, fists bunching the fabric like he needed something solid to hold on to.

Hudson couldn’t tell who leaned in first.

Maybe they both did.

A shared, almost imperceptible shift.

All he knew was the moment Connor’s lower lip brushed his.

It was barely a touch—a soft graze that made Hudson’s upper lip part on reflex.

Hudson stopped breathing.

The contact lasted no more than a second. It wasn’t a conscious kiss. It was a spark. A mistake. An awakening.

Connor jerked back like he’d burned.

He pulled back sharply, releasing Hudson’s waist and stepping away, his back still pressed to the wall.

“Shit,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, Huddy. I—I’m sorry.”

He crouched almost immediately to grab the backpack he’d left near the doorway. His movements were clumsy, rushed, like he needed to get out before he could process what had just happened. He all but ran out, without looking back.

Hudson didn’t say anything.

He didn’t move.

It had only been a brush of lips. Nothing more.

And yet—

He still couldn’t breathe.

***

The creative team meeting for the Scott and Kip series was scheduled at CRAVE’s offices in Montreal. Everyone had been called in for eight sharp, and according to Brad, the CAA team would arrive a little after nine to join the conversation. The agenda was tight. Strategic. Packed with words like positioning, international reach, and narrative coherence.

Connor had barely slept.

He’d spent the night at François’s condo—but he hadn’t canceled his hotel reservation. Not for comfort. For caution. He knew he’d probably use it at some point during the week. He didn’t want it to become too obvious that he was always at François’s place. In this industry, even the smallest details could turn into headlines.

The night before, almost desperately, he’d asked François to fuck him.

It hadn’t been subtle. No slow buildup. No patient foreplay. It was direct. He needed to feel him. Needed François to strip him, touch him, let his cock harden against his, make the desire so obvious and physical there was no room for doubt.

He’d gone to him without hesitation, kissed him with hunger, tongue pushing in with an urgency that wasn’t typical of him. His hands had slid down fast—chest, abdomen—until he grabbed him over his pants.

François’s dick had hardened immediately beneath the fabric. Connor felt it stiffen in his palm the second he kissed him. The pressure was unmistakable. Warm. Reactive.

That’s why it hurt more when François pulled back slightly, breathing hard.

He said he was too stressed. That he had too much on his mind. That he couldn’t do it. That he wasn’t in the right headspace to fuck.

He said it with a clear erection straining under his pants.

So he couldn’t?

Or he didn’t want to?

Connor had stared at him, confused. Hurt. For a second he thought maybe François was playing with him. Some unconscious retaliation for what had happened last time in Toronto—for that fight that ended badly. But when he insisted—when he kissed him again, when his hand slid down once more and François stopped him again—the ground shifted under his feet.

Connor’s irrational side spiraled.

He wanted to shove him against the wall. Wanted to drop to his knees and take his cock into his mouth until the desire was undeniable. Until François gave in to pleasure and couldn’t keep saying he “couldn’t.” He wanted to feel himself hard for him, wanted to come in his mouth and watch him swallow it all.

No.

He needed to feel that.

For a moment he wondered if they weren’t as okay as he’d thought. If agreeing to the Robbie strategy wasn’t enough to patch what he’d broken.

But the rational part of him—the part still trying to do this right—told him maybe it was better this way. Not just because François genuinely looked overwhelmed… but because Connor was too.

He needed to know his body still burned for him. That his desire was solid. Primitive. Undeniable. That the erection he felt when he touched him wasn’t habit—but hunger.

His chest tightened at the memory of the day before.

He had almost kissed Hudson.

The memory burned in his mouth like a fresh wound.

The closeness. The shared breath. The slight but undeniable brush of their lips. That suspended second when his body reacted before his brain did, when the air turned heavy and the world shrank to the heat between them.

It was driving him insane.

He could still feel Hudson’s hands on his neck, on his cheek. Firm but careful, like he might break. He could feel his breath against his own—warm, mixing without either of them meaning to. And that lingering tingle on his lips, exactly where they’d touched.

It was absurd.

He’d kissed those lips a hundred times before.

But that brush—

That one had drained something out of him.

He’d gone to François with that near-desperation. He needed sex to be proof. Physical. Concrete. He needed his desire to be indisputable. Needed his cock to respond the way it always had when he touched him. Needed his skin to burn only for him.

He needed François’s touch to erase the doubt.

To convince himself that what almost happened with Hudson had just been vulnerability. A fragile moment. Confusion born from exhaustion, fear, proximity pushed too far.

That his body—his instinct, his most primal desire—still belonged exclusively to François.

But without that confirmation—without sex, without release together—the “I can’t” left him suspended somewhere far more uncomfortable:

With no proof at all.

He’d ended up in the bathroom, turning on the shower and letting hot water pound against his back like it could untangle the knot lodged between his shoulder blades. One hand braced against the tile wall, the other sliding down his abdomen, still tight with tension.

His cock was hard from friction. From anxiety. From need.

He jerked off with firm, almost harsh movements. Not slow. Not exploratory. A release.

He shut his eyes and forced himself to focus on François’s body—on his chest, on the way his dick had bulged under the fabric minutes earlier, on how he looked when he came inside him. He forced himself to reconstruct familiar, safe images.

But his mind betrayed him.

The memory of that brush of lips flashed back in unwanted bursts. Shared breath. Closeness.

He clenched his teeth.

Forced himself toward something concrete. Tangible. François’s low groans when he lost control. The way he fucked him hard, hands gripping his hips, setting the rhythm without hesitation. The firm pressure of his cock stretching him open, pushing deep, dragging that sound out of him Connor always tried—and failed—to swallow.

He focused on that.

On how François sometimes came with barely any warning, just from the weight of Connor’s ass moving over him. On the way his breathing turned ragged when heat wrapped around him completely. On the tremor in his thighs when orgasm hit while he was still buried inside.

Connor clung to those images like a lifeline.

To the familiar friction. Shared sweat. The way their bodies fit with a naturalness he’d never questioned.

He needed his desire to have a clear name.

Needed to feel his body respond to that memory, that intensity, that man.

He moved his hand faster under the hot water, trying to make the memory enough. Trying to let those groans drown out any other echo. Trying to let the sensation of being fucked—taken with that certainty—push aside the confusion.

He sped up.

When the orgasm tore through him, it was intense—

And empty.

He came into his own hand, semen washing away down the drain.

He stayed under the shower a few seconds longer, forehead resting against the cool tile while the water kept falling.

He didn’t feel relieved.

So that morning, before heading to CRAVE’s offices, Connor had to make a conscious effort to act like everything was fine.

He kept his face relaxed. His voice steady. His movements normal.

He had breakfast with François in the condo kitchen as if the night before hadn’t left an invisible crack between them. Neither mentioned it. Not the rejection. Not the tension. Not the silence after Connor had left the bathroom.

They ate across from each other, exchanging neutral comments about the day’s agenda, the meeting with CAA, the morning traffic. The words were correct. The tone polite.

Under the table, Connor’s hands were cold.

His stomach tight.

They drove together in the rental car François had arranged. During the ride they barely spoke. Montreal passed outside the window in a blur while Connor tried to regulate his breathing without making it obvious. Every time he thought about seeing Hudson, his pulse spiked.

He had the physical sensation he might throw up on the sidewalk the second he stepped inside the building.

When they arrived at CRAVE, the glass facade reflected a morning that was far too bright for how murky he felt inside.

Nick and Brad were waiting at reception.

Connor forced a professional smile.

“Hey.”

They greeted him warmly, shook François’s hand with automatic formality.

“Jill and Michael are inside,” Nick said. “They’re waiting.”

François nodded at the mention of his agents. Before heading down the hallway, he gave Connor a brief touch on the shoulder. Polite. Almost procedural.

Connor swallowed.

“And Hudson?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Inside,” Nick replied.

Connor had the immediate urge to check the time. He pulled out his phone almost reflexively.

7:36 a.m.

Early. Everyone was early.

Anxious. Nervous. Restless.

At least the ones with something at stake in the CAA conversation.

Nick and Brad filled the next few minutes with surface talk about the meeting structure, Steven and Natalie’s arrival. Connor nodded. Listened. Contributed just enough.

His mind was elsewhere.

François had stepped out for iced coffee because the conference room only had hot.

Sophie’s voice cut through his spiral just as he was about to drift too far into it.

“Hey, handsome.”

Light. Almost sing-song.

Connor turned toward her with relief he hadn’t expected. The smile that appeared on his face was automatic. Real. For the first time all morning, he wasn’t pretending.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and hugged her, burying his face briefly in her shoulder. Sophie always smelled like something floral.

“Seeing you sooner than I thought,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at her.

“Told you. Jacob gave me more lines than you think,” she replied with a playful wink.

Connor frowned, confused. It took his brain a second to connect.

“Wait—are you in this series too?”

She laughed softly, amused by his confusion.

“No, not for that.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice like she was revealing state secrets. “I have a very important meeting.”

Connor raised his brows.

“New show?”

“Yes!” she squealed, barely containing herself. Her eyes were shining. “I can’t say much yet, but it’s big. Really big.” She pressed a hand to her chest like she had to hold her excitement in. “We have to celebrate. You know… the three of us.”

The words hung there.

The three of us.

Connor felt that phrase land differently now. Now, knowing that “us” inevitably included Hudson, it didn’t feel light. After yesterday, he didn’t know what that triangle was supposed to look like.

“I—yeah. Sure,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

Sophie wrinkled her nose, exaggerating disappointment theatrically.

“I’m not letting you guys leave without doing something crazy. We need it.”

Connor was about to answer when a familiar voice appeared at his side.

“Here.”

François handed him an iced coffee, condensation already dampening the glass. Connor took it, the cold shocking his palm.

Sophie didn’t greet him. Didn’t even look at him. Before Connor could process it, she grabbed his arm lightly.

“I’ll text you,” she said, squeezing once before letting go.

She disappeared down a different hallway, her figure swallowed by glass doors—without a single word to François.

Connor turned slowly toward him.

“Did you two fight?”

François swallowed. Subtle. Almost invisible. But Connor saw it. His jaw tightened just slightly before he answered.

“No,” he said too quickly. “Well… no. I mean. Sort of.”

That ambiguity didn’t help.

Connor opened his mouth to push.

“What did you do?”

Brad’s voice cut in from the conference room doorway.

“Let’s go. Time.”

François seized the interruption like an exit. He turned without adding anything and walked toward the room.

Connor followed, cold coffee clenched in his hand, unease tightening in his gut.

He didn’t know if the knot in his stomach was because Hudson was on the other side of that door.

Or because of the meeting with CAA.

Or because Sophie had ignored François.

Or because too many things were starting to unravel at once.

Chapter End Notes

Well, I hope it’s a chapter that feels worth it, even if it’s not what you were expecting haha. 🤍

Our stubborn, clueless, and adorable summer sun is starting to understand things a little better now… or is he? 🌤️ I’m not sure.

Once again, thank you for reading. I haven’t caught up with the comments yet, but I will soon. Truly, thank you so much for reading this madness and for giving it so much love. 🥹 It really motivates me to keep going. ✨

Chapter 13: Disappointment pt. 1

Chapter Notes

Hi, before you start reading, I want to tell you two things:

1. This chapter is actually the first part. I took a long time writing it and when I realized it was over 20k words, so I decided to split it into two parts so it wouldn’t be too tedious to read.

2. I’ll post the next part within the next 2 hours, maybe a little later, but I’ll do it today so you can read both parts.

Hudson was seated almost at the center of the boardroom table, his back straight and his forearms resting on the wooden surface. To his right sat Elena, reviewing something on her iPad with a concentration that seemed forced; her furrowed brow was proof that she was tuned in to every conversation in the room. On the other side was Aiden Tremblay, whom Hudson had almost certainly identified as the director who would be in charge of the new Heated Rivalry spin-off. He couldn’t remember whether Elena had mentioned it before or whether Aiden had clarified it when introducing himself; that morning, his mind was holding onto information as if everything were wrapped in layers of cotton.

He had arrived at the CRAVE offices at 7:20 a.m., forty minutes earlier than necessary. Too early, even for him—someone who usually showed up early to everything. But staying at the hotel had felt unbearable. There wasn’t much to do there, the room wasn’t large, and the window didn’t offer much of a distraction—not only because the view wasn’t pretty, but because it was so high up that he couldn’t even make out cars or pedestrians. He could only look at the sky, and that wide blue expanse did nothing but leave him thinking, over and over again, about things he didn’t want to think about.

He skipped breakfast without even considering it. When Elena tried to suggest that they at least grab a coffee, Hudson shook his head and promised to make up for it with a proper meal later. The truth was that his stomach was completely knotted; the mere idea of swallowing anything made his insides churn.

The room was cold. It felt as though they had turned on one of those corporate air conditioners that never find a middle ground and instead freeze you to the bone—but no. Hudson’s skin felt slightly tight, as if anxiety were tuning his nerves just beneath the surface. He looked at the door every few seconds, longing for the moment it would open and Connor would walk through it.

He pretended to be interested in the screens at the back of the room. The CRAVE logo appeared and disappeared in a sequence of high-budget advertisements. With no sound, the images flickered by in dramatic silence. Hudson distracted himself by imagining the music that would accompany each spot. Electronic beats for one, tense strings for another. He pictured himself in a post-production studio, adjusting layers of sound from his own archive. The thought of using some of Connor’s music even crossed his mind. Loud, intense, imperfect—but above all, incredibly powerful. A couple of those ads would be instantly elevated by one of his tracks.

He shoved the thought away abruptly, because the whole point of focusing on the ads had been precisely that—not to think about Connor.

Damn it, he hadn’t even been able to sleep. He had tossed and turned all night in the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for his phone to vibrate, for Connor to text something. Anything. But no message came. And although his mind cruelly supplied the image of Connor fucking his boyfriend, staying busy enough not to write to him, the truth was that Hudson hadn’t written either. But what was he supposed to say?

“Hey, what was that?”

“Is it just me, or were you about to kiss me?”

That, without a doubt, wouldn’t just have been awkward—it would have opened the door to a conversation he didn’t want to have: Hudson hadn’t pulled away; he had waited for Connor to complete the movement. He knew he wouldn’t have taken the initiative, not in that moment. Connor had looked vulnerable, and crossing that line would have been, in some way, taking advantage.

If he analyzed it with a cool head, Hudson wouldn’t have pulled away afterward either, nor would he have demanded explanations right then. Connor’s closeness had thrown him off balance: the frantic rhythm of his heart, the faint dizziness, as though his chest were filling beyond capacity, as though his chest were being split open. He would even have let Connor kiss him and then walk away. He probably would have gotten angry later, once the emotional impact landed. But in the moment… in the moment he would have surrendered completely to Connor’s mouth and then likely spent several minutes trying to pull himself together while his body still processed what had just happened.

The most absurd thing was that it wasn’t new. Connor and he had kissed hundreds of times. In front of cameras, in front of production crews, with photographers capturing every angle. Even the first time he had to kiss him again after so long, in that scene in Toronto, it hadn’t felt the same. Their lips had touched so many times that this one should have been neutral. Maybe not ordinary, because they had never kissed off camera, but at least more… calm?

Because the brush of the day before had been anything but calm. Hudson had sucked on Connor’s tongue before; he had explored Connor’s mouth with his own, so it was a little ridiculous to lose his head over the mere brushing of their lips. Even Connor’s breath had seemed sweeter, his lips softer. Hudson felt ridiculous for thinking it. The contact hadn’t lasted even half a second, and yet he had spent hours reconstructing it in his mind, as if something extraordinary had happened in that tiny instant.

He gave a slight shake of his head, as if he could dislodge all the thoughts. Elena glanced at him sideways and gave the faintest shake of her own, likely interpreting the gesture as pre-meeting nerves. From the outside, he must have looked ridiculous. He lowered his gaze to his clothes and let out a sigh. Now he regretted it. That morning he had dressed without thinking. He had literally grabbed the first things he saw in his suitcase: black cargo pants, a black T-shirt, a black cap, black shoes, black sunglasses. All black. He looked ready for a funeral.

The thought crossed his mind with dry irony: maybe his own. Since yesterday, he felt as though something had seeped out of him through every pore, as if a part of him had left without warning. Or perhaps it was an unconscious preparation for the meeting he would later have with the people at CAA. He had read somewhere that black is one of the most powerful colors in nonverbal communication and that in business meetings it helps project confidence and authority. Exactly what he needed with these people. Still, his outfit was terrible.

On any other day, he would have paused in front of the mirror, evaluated the image, the message, the balance between carelessness and strategy. But not today. He didn’t have the headspace to coordinate anything.

When the clock struck 7:55 a.m., the doors to the room opened to let those waiting outside come in. Hudson drew in a breath and held it without realizing, his abdomen tightening as if bracing for impact. He had pulled his forearms off the table; now only his fingertips touched the smooth, cold wood. He focused on that sensation, on the texture beneath his hands, so he wouldn’t lift his gaze.

It didn’t last long—maybe a minute, no, maybe just a few seconds—because his eyes, of their own accord, searched for Connor, who walked in holding an iced coffee. François was at his side, one hand resting on his lower back, guiding him toward the seats where they would sit together.

Connor didn’t look bad in any obvious way. He wasn’t disheveled or falling apart; he just looked bad in a different sense. Maybe a little pale, his posture much more rigid than usual, and he was giving everyone that damn fake smile Hudson hated.

He took a seat at the opposite end of the table, diagonally across from him, while François settled in beside him. Hudson hadn’t stopped watching him since he entered the room, though he hadn’t been aware of it until Connor lifted his gaze and their eyes met. The fake smile vanished then, and Hudson hadn’t realized how much he’d needed it to disappear until that instant. There was no genuine smile for him—only a look that held for a few seconds before sliding away. Hudson felt a sharp pinch in his chest and that flutter in his stomach that comes right after bad news. He didn’t stop looking at him, though he kept telling himself to look away, that it was already starting to seem strange, but he simply couldn’t. And yet Connor wasn’t looking at him.

In that moment, Hudson felt as though life itself were mocking him, the sneer etched into every step, because this month had become the worst of his life—and he’d had bad months before. But this one had witnessed his first real argument with Connor; the emotional dependence they had on each other; the feelings Hudson had for him; the almost unconscious ways their bodies gravitated toward one another; the arguments, the exhaustion; Connor’s unnamed unhappiness. And on top of that, his apparent breakup with his girlfriend of more than six years.

The almost-kiss was part of that chaotic landscape too, but for some reason—and perhaps it had to do with the look of panic he’d seen in those eyes—it was something that simply needed to be erased, pushed away, reduced to a miscalculation or a misread moment. If he thought about it rationally, Hudson knew that was the most sensible approach, because in retrospect, every time they had crossed a similar line, it had always been when Connor was emotionally vulnerable, hurt, and looking for support.

What does that make me? Hudson wondered.

He wasn’t some spiritual charger someone plugged into when they ran out of battery, nor was Connor an incubus draining his energy through his mouth every time he needed to pull himself back together. That dynamic wasn’t just unfair—it was cruel. And Hudson didn’t want to occupy that role.

He hadn’t truly been hoping that something would happen between them. He was fully aware of the relationship Connor had with his boyfriend, of the history they shared and how important it was to him. But at the very least, he had expected them to talk about it—to voice what they’d felt, to clarify whatever it was that had happened in those few seconds. And yet Connor’s body had practically screamed the answer, so it wasn’t hard for Hudson to understand the situation.

He lowered his gaze, finally pulling his eyes away from someone who no longer looked back at him. He fixed his stare on his hands resting on the table and began moving his fingertips in small, slow circles, as if the friction against the wood could anchor him to the surface and keep him from collapsing out of his chair onto the floor.

Elena must have noticed his inner conflict—or perhaps his face was more expressive than he realized—because she gently nudged his arm with her elbow. Hudson turned his head toward her for just a second, furrowed his brow as if to downplay everything, and shook his head quickly, trying to convey that he was fine, that there was nothing to worry about, even though inside he knew that was far from true.

The room buzzed with voices until Aiden Tremblay took the floor. Hudson gave a slight start when the man beside him began the formal welcome; he had been so lost in his own head that the shift in tone jolted him back to the present.

Nine o’clock came and went without anyone announcing it, and the meeting moved forward naturally. They talked about settings, potential nudity, location shoots, which sets would be fixed and which would be itinerant. They discussed tone, narrative arcs, and character development. After an extensive conversation, they mentioned the role they anticipated for his and Connor’s participation as Ilya and Shane. Kip and Scott’s story would unfold parallel to theirs, so their appearances would be designed as independent cameos rather than as an on-screen couple. Perhaps at some point they would give the audience a subtle nod to the relationship—but nothing more.

“Until we reach that point in some future season,” Aiden said at one moment, almost as if tossing the possibility into the air.

Hudson felt a slight tug low in his stomach. It was an uncomfortable sensation, as if he were being placed in a display case like the showiest flower in the shop window to draw in customers, only to warn them that if they wanted that one, they had to buy twenty others first. He felt like a guarantee of success, a safe bet to sell another story, an accessory that increased the odds of the project working. And he assumed it would remain that way until the frenzy surrounding the series burned out or found a new object of obsession.

At the same time, he wasn’t planning to stay tied to the Heated Rivalry universe much longer. When they were offered a third season, both He and Connor had been euphoric, incredulous at the magnitude of what was happening to them. But popularity had brought with it an avalanche of attention, and with it, cruel and invasive people, relentless opinions that seemed never to end. Sometimes he wondered whether he really wanted his career to keep revolving around the same thing, whether he wanted his name to remain permanently linked to a single character and a single story.

Acting had never been up for debate. He was clear on that. But starting to feel as though he had to please too many people—that every gesture was analyzed, every scene dissected to exhaustion—took some of the joy out of it. He wanted to act without that weight, without the pressure of carrying other people’s expectations. He wanted to try other stories, other characters, to kiss other women and other men in different contexts, to explore new dynamics.

He didn’t mind kissing Connor. On the contrary, with him he felt comfortable, safe, as if that choreography were already etched into his muscle memory. But he didn’t want his professional life to be reduced forever to Shane Hollander, nor for his name to be inevitably tied to Connor’s. One of the reasons they had publicly distanced themselves had been precisely that—not only because of the relationships that could be affected, but because they didn’t want even the moments that were genuinely theirs to end up turned into a brand others could exploit.

The meeting moved forward to a point where it was no longer essential for him, Connor, or even their agents to remain there. Even so, none of them moved. First, because getting up would have been discourteous. Second, because they were waiting for the CAA team to arrive.

And as it turned out, they were already there. He saw them through the glass, talking among themselves in the hallway while they waited for the meeting to end. Robbie had stepped out minutes earlier to use the restroom, and in that moment Hudson clearly made out the group. His heart gave an involuntary leap and, out of pure instinct, he looked for Connor—who, to his surprise, was already looking at him.

The exchange was brief, barely a couple of seconds, but enough to recognize the obvious: they both wanted this to be over as soon as possible, for the next conversation to come and go already.

The meeting ran longer than expected and ended close to 11 a.m. Elena was no longer hiding her irritation; her rigid posture and cutting silence were enough to make it clear. Hudson’s stomach protested with a low sound only he could hear, reminding him they hadn’t eaten anything and that the promise of a postponed meal was starting to weigh on him. Even he was beginning to regret the decisions made by the 7 a.m. version of himself, so convinced he could get through the morning on coffee alone. Coffee he hadn’t, in fact, even had. He hadn’t even had time to smoke, and the anxiety had him on the verge of taking a drag from his own finger.

Little by little, the creative team of the new series cleared out of the room, gathering folders and devices until the space was almost empty. Finally, only Steven Caldwell, Natalie Fraser, François, Robbie, Connor, Hudson, and their respective agents remained. The atmosphere shifted immediately; it was no longer a broad conversation about art and narrative, but something more strategic.

Hudson had the distinct feeling of being seated at a political campaign meeting rather than a business one. Steven and Natalie began speaking in exactly the same tone as the first time they had met: soft, almost robotic voices. They sounded as though they were reciting a crisis-management manual handed down by CAA, with carefully structured sentences and strategic pauses. Mechanical, as if repeating a memorized speech they didn’t entirely believe.

Natalie took the floor and summarized what had happened since that first meeting up to another meeting they had recently held with Robbie and François. As she spoke, Hudson couldn’t help but notice the subtle shift in Connor’s body. He tensed slightly—just enough to be noticeable: his head slightly bowed, as if focusing on his hands could make his discomfort less obvious; the line of his jaw sharply defined by how hard he was clenching his teeth; the way his back was pressed completely against the chair, as though contact with something solid allowed him to stay there and appear steady, as if this whole shitty situation didn’t affect him.

“Well,” Steven finally said, his chair letting out an irritating squeak as he adjusted his posture, “taking into account that both Connor and Hudson are not interested in telling a romantic narrative that would attract more curious viewers and expand the reach of the series—” Steven lifted his shoulders as though he were commenting on the weather or mentioning how his alarm had gone off at six that morning but he’d woken up at 5:59—“today we’ve come to make a proposal that could benefit all of us and that doesn’t require you”—he added, this time pointing directly at Connor and Hudson—“to ‘sell’”—he marked the word with exaggerated air quotes—“a relationship. Or at least not yours.”

A relatively uncomfortable silence followed; no one spoke, and they all glanced at one another.

“Could you please tell us what it is?” Elena finally interjected, cutting through the tension with a firm voice.

Her brow was furrowed, her patience visibly worn thin; hunger didn’t help, and the way Steven had constructed his speech—full of detours and unnecessary suspense—was beginning to exasperate her. Hudson silently appreciated that his agent was like that: direct, incapable of tolerating theatrical ambiguity when what was needed was clarity. In moments like that, he tended to wait for someone else to speak first, and she always gave him that small push that spared him from having to do it.

Hudson wasn’t exactly someone who stayed quiet when he didn’t like something. But thanks to Elena, he had learned that there are moments—like this one—when it’s wiser to let someone who understands the terrain better take the lead. If she hadn’t been there, or if he hadn’t taken the media training seriously, he probably would have told them to go to hell a couple of minutes earlier, demanding they say what they had to say and stop beating around the bush. Because deep down, he already knew what his answer would be. And he also knew how everything could escalate. He would say no, then he would either resign or be written out of the series; a lawsuit for breach of contract would follow; the matter would become public. There would be headlines, divided opinions, public analysis. Maybe people would side with him, maybe they wouldn’t. And his name would be dragged through weeks of debate he had no desire to endure. At the mere thought of where this was headed, he let Elena take the initiative while he bit his tongue—figuratively—to keep from speaking too soon.

“We want to build anticipation around both series,” Natalie said in a measured tone. “What does that mean? That, considering Heated Rivalry has been a success, both CRAVE and CAA want to ensure this new series is as well.”

The word CAA landed on the table and Hudson could have sworn he heard the thud; he felt the physical sensation of someone tugging his hair, even tilting his head slightly as if the pull had been real. The fact that the agency was openly inserting itself into the equation was no coincidence. Robbie and François were now under the same banner. That gave CAA full authority to intervene and do whatever it was they were attempting to do in that moment.

What Hudson actually felt was disgust, a near-visceral rejection. Up until then, he had been proud to be part of CAA, to be represented by one of the most important agencies in the industry. But hearing the way they spoke, the way they intertwined names and projects as if they were interchangeable pieces on a board, made it painfully clear what truly mattered: maximizing reach, securing profits, xpanding their narrative reach. Not people. Not loyalty. Certainly not individual trajectories. The ambition for more—even when they already had enough—pushed them to the point of straining relationships with the very people who, ironically, might have remained loyal to them indefinitely.

“Considering that Robbie and François accepted the offer,” Natalie continued with the same composure as before, “the offer that you two did not accept”—she added, marking the distinction with passive-aggressive precision—“the idea is that you do something that is, in fact, contemplated within your contractual obligations.”

“What would that be?” Connor asked, speaking for the first time all morning.

Hudson turned toward him immediately. Connor’s hands were resting on the table, his fingers interlaced too tightly; his knuckles had gone white, and his free thumb kept rubbing insistently at the skin on the back of his hand until it reddened. For a moment, Hudson wished Connor would look at him, that their eyes would meet so he could give him a silent signal, tell him to ease up. But it wasn’t necessary.

François must have noticed the same thing—or perhaps he simply read Hudson’s expression—because without hesitation he took Connor’s hands and lowered them firmly. From where he sat, Hudson could see the movement clearly. François separated Connor’s hands, took only one between his own, and rested it in his lap. The image drove something sharp into the back of Hudson’s neck, a thin, deeply uncomfortable splinter. And yet a part of him was grateful for the gesture, grateful that François was calming him in that moment—paradoxical as it was, considering the bastard was, in large part, the reason Connor was so anxious.

“We would manage a kind of joint pre-promotion,” Natalie said.

At least Connor’s and Hudson’s teams furrowed their brows in confusion, because Natalie quickly added:

“There are several events coming up that you’ve been invited to, correct? For example, the Spring–Summer Fashion Week taking place in New York—you’re invited to that, right, Connor?”

Connor nodded.

“Good.” This time Steven took over. “The idea is that you attend that event with Robbie or François—or, ideally, with both.”

Hudson only knew he had been about to open his mouth when Elena’s hand squeezed his knee beneath the table. He looked at her and she gave him a subtle shake of her head, asking him to wait.

“The idea is that you can make videos together, that people see you arriving at events together, that you give interviews as a couple—or the three of you together,” Steven explained with a broad smile, clearly pleased with himself. “It’s also much better than showing up to those events alone, don’t you think?”

“Like a babysitter or something?” Nick shot back, not bothering to soften his tone. “So he can stand there like some kind of Eucerin ad?”

Hudson didn’t take his eyes off Connor. He watched every gesture hidden behind his everything’s going to be fine mask, cataloguing in seconds every shift in his expression. Connor was looking at Steven as if what he had just heard meant losing something far bigger than a simple professional decision. There was an almost desperate tension in his eyes, as though he were silently begging him to ask for anything but that.

Neither Steven nor Natalie were saying it out loud—because they certainly didn’t know—but what they were actually proposing was that Connor become the public host of his own boyfriend so that said boyfriend could pretend to be the partner of another man.

Hudson’s stomach churned at the mere thought. He felt an almost physical urge to stand up, cross the table, and grab Connor by the shoulders so he would react, so he would say no already. He also wanted to turn to François and ask him what the hell was wrong with him. How could he even consider something like this?

He can’t love him, Hudson thought, anger burning hot in his chest. He simply can’t. You don’t love someone and push them into this kind of hell for your own convenience. That’s not strategy. It’s selfishness. It’s narcissism. It’s just cruel.

Connor turned slightly toward François.

“Did you know about this?” he asked.

Though he tried to speak slowly, anger seeped into his voice; at least Hudson caught it. François looked stunned, as though he didn’t know what to say. And that, to Hudson’s even greater irritation, complicated things—because, however much it grated on him to admit it, everything suggested the idiot genuinely hadn’t known the meeting would take this turn.

Hudson’s hands trembled slightly beneath the table. His jaw was so tight his teeth ached. But then Natalie kept speaking, and the sound of her voice forced him to stay still.

“It would be the same for you, Hudson,” she said in a gentle tone, as though she believed the conversation was flowing nicely and they would all walk out of there with a great deal. “You’re much more active on social media. In your case, I think we could plan additional activities—things that can be posted and draw real attention.”

“So basically what?” Hudson asked, his voice dry, nearly devoid of inflection. “Help people see them?” He gave a humorless smile. “I mean, they already saw them during the series, so why—”

“The idea is that you support that side of things, like a form of marketing,” Natalie cut in. “Maybe even a new kind of guerrilla marketing.”

Hudson stifled a laugh that still echoed through the room. He glanced quickly at everyone present and then focused on Steven. He felt Elena’s sharp pinch against his thigh and knew every lesson from media training had just gone straight to hell. He lost his patience.

“That’s not my job,” Hudson stated flatly. “I’m not a fucking graphic designer creating content to post on social media. I’m not a fucking publicist or a business administrator. I didn’t study business. I don’t know a damn thing about marketing.” He shook his head, incredulous at the situation. “I won’t do it. I’m not supporting this circus.”

He then looked at Robbie, who immediately averted his gaze, as though he had suddenly become ashamed.

“Are you even okay with this?” Hudson demanded. “Deceiving people, pretending you’re in a relationship—it’s disgusting. No, it’s repulsive. It says a lot about you as people. Where’s your morality? Is ambition really so overwhelming that you’d go along with something this ridiculous?”

“Hudson!” Natalie’s voice turned firm, cutting him off at once. “There is a contract here that has already been signed—by Robbie and François, as well as by you and Connor. I recommend you read it again. One of your obligations is to participate in promotional activities related to the series. There’s even a clause specifying that you will take part in what is required while the contract remains in effect.”

“For Heated Rivalry,” he shot back, leaning slightly forward. “What you’re asking me to do is basically to do something for another—”

“No,” she interrupted, “because it’s designed to benefit both productions.”

“Oh, is it?” he snapped, ignoring Elena’s firm grip on his leg under the table. “Because I’m not entirely sure how it benefits us to turn into hosts for Hollywood’s next big gay romance.”

“He’s right,” François interjected.

Hudson’s eyes rolled faintly at the sound of his voice. He turned toward him, expression twisted.

“I don’t see much sense in framing it that way,” François continued. “We could think of another strategy.”

“Like what?” Hudson shot back, his words razor-sharp as they left his mouth. “Because it seems to me we’re having this conversation because Robbie and you definitely wanted something like this.”

“Not involving you,” François cut in, his irritation directed solely at Hudson.

Hudson caught Connor’s uncomfortable shift beside his boyfriend. He was seconds away from telling François everything that was burning in his throat—but that would mean exposing something that wasn’t his to reveal in front of Natalie and Steven. On set, many suspected; there were whispers, even jokes hinting at it. But rumor was one thing. CAA having confirmation was something else entirely. If there was a truth that needed to be made public, it wouldn’t be him putting it on the table. That right didn’t belong to him, and he would never—ever—do something like that to Connor.

“Hudson… François,” Natalie intervened, her tone so mild it was unsettling in its venom. “I think we’re getting off track.” Steven exchanged a quick glance with her before she continued. “When we last discussed this proposal—which clearly did not materialize”—she paused to make sure they both understood exactly what she was referencing—“we also talked about the importance of aligning strategically.”

Hudson didn’t respond. He simply stared at her.

“You know how this works,” she added, standing now and placing both hands on the table. “Opportunities don’t disappear by accident. Sometimes they simply stop being available when there isn’t coherence between a talent’s image and the market’s needs.. I’m not saying that’s the case right now,” she continued with a polished half-smile. “I’m just saying we all understand that some decisions strengthen a career… and others complicate it unnecessarily.”

In that instant, Hudson had to call on every ancestor, every guiding spirit, every lesson he had ever learned in his life not to react. His heart pounded with almost painful force, but it wasn’t fear driving him. Not after having already lived through the consequences of saying no. He knew what it meant for a campaign to disappear without formal explanation. He knew what it meant to be quietly removed from certain lists. And he also knew that if he refused again now, it wouldn’t be something like Hermès. It would be worse.

“Is that a threat?” Elena’s voice rang out clearly across the room.

Her tone was firm without needing to rise, enough to slice through the tension that had thickened between them. That simple intervention curbed the surge of anger rising in his stomach, as if someone had pressed a steady hand to his chest and reminded him he wasn’t alone at that table.

“No, of course not. Just a reminder,” Natalie replied smoothly. “We’ve had this conversation before. You know the consequences of failing to meet certain contractual expectations.”

Elena offered Natalie a smile—sweet on the surface, but one Hudson knew far too well. CAA would never admit responsibility for what had happened with the Hermès and Calvin Klein campaigns. But Natalie’s last sentence was enough to dissolve any lingering doubt. If there had been any.

Elena turned her head with effortless elegance, her long hair sliding over her shoulder and spilling onto the table. She looked at Brad and, with the slightest tilt of her head, signaled him to step in.

“We have something to add now, Natalie… Steven…” Brad said, opening a folder. Connor and Hudson exchanged a brief glance—barely a second—before focusing on him.

Their agents had told them before the trip to Toronto that they were preparing for this meeting. Hudson felt the ridiculous urge to stand up and hug them when they finally intervened. But he didn’t move. His entire body was attuned to what they were about to say.

“I’ll start by making something clear so there’s no misunderstanding.” Brad didn’t raise his voice, nor did he look at his notes. He placed both hands on the table and spoke with a calm that was more intimidating than any shout. “Neither Connor nor Hudson has refused to fulfill any contractual obligation. They have attended official interviews, premieres, promotional shoots, and events previously stipulated in the approved calendar.”

Each time Brad listed an item, he counted it off on his fingers. Then he handed the folder to Nick, who slid it to the center of the table so the CAA representatives could see it.

“Here is the schedule signed by both parties. Every item has been fulfilled,” Elena reinforced. Then she looked at Brad, signaling him to continue.

“Now then. What you are attempting here is not contractual promotion—it’s what’s known as a strategic redistribution of image capital. And that is not in the contract.” Brad lifted his gaze directly to Natalie and Steven, making no real effort to hide the faint smile that appeared when he saw both of them pressing their lips into thin lines. “Clause 4.2 establishes reasonable participation in promotional activities for the series. It does not establish unlimited availability. It does not establish control over their schedules. And it most certainly does not establish that they are to be used to boost the commercial positioning of other talents represented by this same company.” Brad leaned back slightly and asked Nick to pass the folder back. Once it was in his hands again, he continued. “CAA has a fiduciary obligation to each of its clients individually. And it’s important to clarify that this obligation is not collective—it is individual.”

A silence followed, thick enough that Hudson felt he could hear everyone breathing. But Elena didn’t leave much space for reflection before continuing.

“I’m not entirely sure whether what you mentioned earlier, Natalie,” Elena said, turning toward her, “was truly a reminder of the contract’s terms… or a way of reminding us that you intervened in campaigns for both Hudson and Connor.” Natalie opened her mouth to respond, but Elena went on before she could. “Pulling advertising campaigns that had already been negotiated after our clients exercised their right to decline a non-mandatory promotional extension constitutes commercial retaliation. And when that retaliation involves demonstrable financial losses, it becomes deliberate contractual interference.” She gave a slight shrug. “But I’m sure I don’t need to explain that here.” Her gaze moved calmly around the table. “I’m certain no one wants to set the precedent that this company punishes its talent for exercising rights explicitly outlined in their own contracts. Because if that narrative were to become public, it wouldn’t affect just two actors.”

Elena glanced briefly at Robbie and François before adding, with the same composure:

“It would affect the trust of every talent you represent.”

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Elena,” Steven interjected, then looked at Brad and Nick. “CAA hasn’t interfered with anything.”

Hudson saw François lower his head. There was no need to ask why. He was likely thinking about the Hermès campaign he was now carrying—the one that had originally been Hudson’s. For Robbie, this seemed new information, but even so, he looked uncomfortable.

“If you’d like to renegotiate terms, we’re open to discussing new ones,” Nick said. “But renegotiations aren’t imposed through intimidation. That’s not professional practice. And you know it.”

“We understand that,” Steven replied. “That’s why, as I said, we didn’t do anything.”

He stood up and looked directly at Hudson.

“And I understand when you say it’s not your responsibility. But I need to clarify something: it’s not something you’d be doing directly. You’d have a team handling everything.”

“You’d just have to show up,” Natalie added, without softening it.

Hudson frowned, wrinkling his nose as if something smelled rotten. He was about to respond when Steven kept going:

“You’ll be doing promotions with or without them. And I’m sorry to tell you it will be with them. You won’t be doing it for the new series. You’ll be doing it for Heated Rivalry. And in case you forgot, those two”—he pointed at Robbie and François—“are also part of the project.”

Hudson held his gaze for a second longer.

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Hudson,” Natalie cut in, “we’ve already told you. You’re required to comply under the terms of the contract.”

Then she looked at the representatives.

“You can review the contract and determine whether it qualifies as promotion for the series. But while the contract remains in effect, there are obligations that must be fulfilled.”

Her tone was still calm, but it was no longer the same—there was a slight heaviness to it now. Hudson could tell that what Connor’s agents and his own had said had unsettled her, even though she was making a considerable effort to hide it.

“There’s also the option of you deciding to leave,” Steven stated, plunging the room into absolute silence. “There may be a third season after that. Or there may not,” he added. “You’ve only just started filming the second. You’re still in time. And so are we—to make changes.”

What?

Hudson wasn’t surprised. He had imagined it more than once. But hearing it said like that—bluntly, without remorse, without the slightest hint of shame—made him tense. It wasn’t the threat that unsettled him. It was the ease with which it was delivered.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, articulating every syllable.

Frustration tightened his jaw so hard he felt like the skin on his face might split, his eyes burning with anger. He was about to turn on Steven and Natalie, ready to unleash everything racing through his head, ready to blow the whole thing up once and for all, tired of measuring his words and breathing before speaking. But before he had the chance, Connor’s voice disarmed him completely.

“I’ll do it,” Connor said.

The words came out in a thread, barely audible, but enough to halt Hudson’s momentum. He turned so abruptly he doubted anyone in the room could have missed how shocked he was.

“I’ll do it. Just me. Huddy can handle his activities on his own—he prefers it that way…”

“Connor,” Hudson warned. He didn’t need to say more; he knew the message was clear: Don’t you dare. But Connor seemed determined to ignore it.

“Huddy doesn’t mind working alone. I, on the other hand, like having company. I can do it.”

He didn’t look at him once.

Was it more important to save his boyfriend’s career than to preserve his own dignity? Was protecting François’s imagemore urgent than sparing himself the pain this would cause? Because it would hurt. It wasn’t the same as doing promotional interviews. It would mean sitting there watching them perform as a couple off-screen, arriving at events together, exchanging knowing looks in front of cameras.

Connor and Hudson hadn’t been offered exactly the same kind of contract, but the end result wasn’t all that different. And that was what infuriated him—because it wasn’t that Connor didn’t understand what was happening. This time there was nothing implicit or ambiguous. Everything was laid out on the table. Robbie and François didn’t have an “inseparable duo” clause like the one once proposed to them. They had something more direct: a contract to sell a relationship.And still, Connor was willing to facilitate it.

What the hell was he thinking?

Hudson forced himself to swallow the knot of emotion tightening his throat. This wasn’t about a couple of isolated events or a short promotional tour. If they did it properly—if they wanted it to be believable—it would be progressive. Months of buildup. First the rumors, the curated social media noise, the ambiguous photos “accidentally” captured. Then, much later, the official confirmation. That wasn’t something you pulled off in two months.—not if you expected the public to buy it.

He shifted his gaze to François, who was watching him steadily from across the table. He couldn’t read his expression. And for the first time, he allowed himself to accept that whatever had once bound them was gone—because in that moment Hudson realized he didn’t know him at all.. Not anymore.

He looked back at Connor, who stubbornly avoided his eyes. A chill ran through him as he realized that, for the first time, he was truly angry with him. That suffocating sensation, the nausea, the urge to scream just to expel the frustration—he hadn’t felt that even the night they’d fought at his house. And now, seeing him sitting there, willing to surrender the most human part of himself just to cling to a shitty relationship, with a shitty man, in a shitty industry, made Hudson want to get up and run.

“To hell with this. I’m out.”

The chair scraped back violently, the harsh sound against the floor shattering the tense silence in the room. Connor finally turned to look at him, while Hudson hadn’t taken his eyes off him in several minutes. The contact was brief—just a few seconds—but in that exchange Hudson understood that, to some extent, he was being unfair. Connor’s mind had to be in chaos, not just thinking but fighting to decide what was right, what sacrifice was worth making. Hudson had been so consumed by his own resentment that he hadn’t left space to consider what might be going through Connor’s head.

No one knows him the way I do. No one.

And even though these had been shitty days—days in which his best friend had been trapped in arguments that drained his sanity—and even though there was surely another reason, beyond François, for giving in to this, Hudson couldn’t grasp it in that moment. He knew it; he knew it might not be fair, that maybe he was wrong. But the desperate pounding of his heart didn’t allow him to offer understanding—only disappointment. He realized it the exact second he held Connor’s gaze. And he regretted it as soon as he recognized what was there, because when he tried to soften it—when he wanted Connor to see something different in his eyes, support perhaps, or at least less harshness—the other had already looked away.

Hudson’s chest sank as he understood that, in that moment, he was being an asshole. Connor would have preferred a closed-fist punch to the nose over being looked at like that. Because “disappointment,” and everything that word carries, cut into Connor in a way Hudson had never quite known how to handle. It was, perhaps, one of the hardest things about his best friend.

The day before, he had promised he would respect whatever decision Connor made. But what Connor was willing to accept wasn’t even human. He was reducing himself to a damn relationship Hudson could no longer pretend was worth it. Not for months now. Not since his boyfriend—without even fully understanding what was happening—had been unable to open his mouth and say something.

Out of fear? Of losing the contract? Of upsetting the agency? To hell with CAA. To hell with François.

Hudson was convinced he’d burn it all down if it meant Connor would be okay. No strategy, no contract, no career, no relationship was worth more than him. None of it was big enough to justify watching him fall apart in front of everyone. Nothing ever would be. Never.

He ignored Elena calling his name, ignored Natalie’s firm voice and any other attempt to stop him. He walked out of the room with his pulse racing, a tight knot of fury and nerves.

He was furious at Connor for agreeing to something like that. Furious at François for putting him in that position and valuing so little what it implied. And, above all, furious at the whole damn world.—because in that moment, everything felt profoundly unfair.

***

Connor was nine years old the first time he felt he had truly failed someone. It had been barely a year since his parents’ divorce, and that Christmas, he and Tyler were spending it with their father.

He remembered the house having a particular smell—like artificial pine mixed with reheated food—that seemed to cling to the curtains. The small fireplace crackled in the living room, the logs fighting to stay lit, while faint carols drifted from the television in the background, almost imperceptible unless you listened for them.

Connor hadn’t wanted to celebrate that Christmas. Not with his mother. Not with his father. He had wanted to be alone.

School hadn’t been going well. For weeks, he had endured comments and laughter at his expense. They mocked him for being in the drama club, for preferring to rehearse lines instead of training after class, for not showing the same enthusiasm for sports as the others. It wasn’t that he hated them; they just didn’t interest him in the same way. Art was what called to him. From a very young age, he had known he wanted to be an actor—and it wasn’t some passing whim. He just knew. That was why he trained from school onward, why he devoted hours to learning, even if it made him an easy target.

His father was serving what looked like a gluey mashed potatoes and some kind of meat drenched in dark gravy. The plate looked unappetizing, vegetables scattered and soaked in the meat’s juices. The three of them had sat down at the table while his father placed glasses of water in the center.

Connor had tried to pull out his chair to sit down, but his father’s house was a mess. Things strewn across the floor, dirty clothes on the furniture, bags of old takeout scattered on the coffee table. So it wasn’t surprising that he slipped on a piece of plastic left on the floor. His first instinct was to grab the table to keep from falling, but his weight made it shift just enough for his plate to crash to the floor, and the glasses of water tipped over, spilling into Tyler’s and his father’s food.

“I’m sorry.”

He had rushed to say it, trying to dry the water with the sleeve of his shirt, but it wasn’t enough. Dinner was ruined. He looked at his father, who seemed to have aged five years since the divorce. His gaze was fixed on the wrecked food as his face turned red.

Connor knew his father had never been a violent man, and that his anger likely had more to do with the fact that it was their first Christmas after the divorce. He wasn’t good at cooking; he had probably bought the meal at Walmart on sale, like always, maybe after standing in a long line just to pay for something to put on the table for his son and daughter. Maybe he had driven around the city exhausted, looking for an old, dusty pine tree. Maybe he had wrapped the presents clumsily, unevenly, just to try to make the night feel calm.

And Connor had ruined it.

His father was angry, and Connor would have preferred if he had yelled, if he had said everything that had been spoiled because of him. But he didn’t. He cleaned up the mess without a word and threw the ruined food in the trash.

“Dad…”

Connor tried to step closer to the table to help fix what he himself had caused, but his father swatted his hand away. He said nothing, yet his eyes screamed everything his voice didn’t. He was tired. He had hoped that night would ease, even a little, the weight of the past few months.

If it had happened a couple of years earlier, they probably would have laughed, ordered something for dinner, or improvised together in the kitchen. They would have sat in front of the television, and his father likely would have let him watch The Wizard of Oz one more time. But not that day.

“I’m sorry,” Connor repeated.

“It had to be you, Connor,” his father said, his voice too hard for a child. “Always you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice breaking this time.

“Merry Christmas… I guess,” his father replied.

Then he shut himself in his bedroom and didn’t come out for the rest of the night.

That was the first time Connor felt he had disappointed someone.

He was only nine years old.

Connor was sitting on the bed in François’s condo bedroom. His back rested against the wall, his legs crossed, a pillow in his lap. He laced his fingers together over it and rubbed them together roughly, as if the motion could muffle the noise pounding inside his head.

Hudson had stormed out of the room in a fury; Elena had rushed after him, but neither of them returned. The meeting had continued as though nothing had happened. Natalie and Steven reiterated the same points as before, only this time spelling out plainly what he would be expected to do now that he had agreed.

The memory of Hudson’s gaze hit him again. Connor exhaled, drew his knees up, rested his arms on the pillow, and buried his face between them. His heart felt crushed, as though some invisible force had settled inside his chest and made it impossible to breathe normally.

That kind of look terrified him. Not the ones accompanied by shouting or endless reproaches, but the quiet ones—the ones that could say more than any hours-long tirade.

He could handle anger. Anger was loud; it involved movement, collision, something tangible you could defend against or push back on. Disappointment, on the other hand—that feeling that always accompanied those looks—left him suspended in a kind of limbo, as though he had suddenly become insufficient.

Because those looks only appeared when someone expected something from him and he had failed to deliver. They didn’t require explanations; they were there to remind him he had fallen short. And Connor didn’t know how to deal with the disappointment of the people he loved. He didn’t know how to hold that gaze without feeling the urge to lower his head, He didn’t know how to hold that gaze without feeling the urge to lower his head, or how to remain steady without feeling like he needed to shrink, to take up less space.

“Oh, God…” he murmured, his face buried in the pillow, his voice muffled by the shelter of his arms.

He shifted again, let the pillow fall aside, and rolled onto his side into a fetal position, staring at the closed door. He could hear the water running in the bathroom; François was showering, while the steady tick-tock of the clock seemed to mock him, reminding him he didn’t have time to unravel his inner conflict, that he needed a clear head to have a conversation with his boyfriend. Connor didn’t want him to come out. He wanted him to stay there at least an hour longer. He needed more solitude—not only to strip away the feelings piling up in his chest or to sort through his thoughts, but out of sheer exhaustion.

The drive home had been painfully silent—so silent it became almost unbearable. Connor had questions lodged in his throat, but he wanted more time. Time to calm down, to ensure he could speak with clarity. He didn’t want to argue; he was so tired of arguing, and he and François seemed to be in a streak where the only form of communication left was conflict. But Connor didn’t even have the energy to talk, didn’t have the energy to form the words. He wanted to be alone.

Maybe it had been a mistake to go with him that day, he thought. He should have stayed at the hotel, come up with an excuse convincing enough to let him lock himself away in a room by himself. But staying at the hotel meant facing Hudson. And he didn’t want that.

If he had to choose which of the two to face that day, it would be François.

With Hudson, it was more complicated. He wouldn’t only have to explain why he had tried to kiss him—he would also have to explain why he was behaving like some submissive idiot, agreeing to a ridiculous strategy to benefit his boyfriend.

What was he supposed to say?

I didn’t do it for him. I did it for you?

His heart thudded harder against his ribs. He covered his face with both hands and rubbed until his skin burned.

Hudson had been disappointed. That’s what his eyes had said.

Connor wanted to talk to him and explain—so long as it didn’t require talking about what had happened the day before. He let out a breath of frustration at the absurdity of that thought. He knew Hudson wouldn’t pressure him for answers. He knew Hudson probably had just as much to say as he did. He knew Hudson was likely in his hotel room right now, waiting. Or maybe not. The look Hudson had given him had been so stark that maybe the last thing he wanted was to see him.

Connor didn’t want to be the one to explain that had the conversation lasted just a little longer, he would have refused. Maybe he would have found the courage to walk out of that room at Hudson’s side and face CAA’s retaliation and a possible breakup with François. But he hadn’t—because Hudson had attacked first. And yet he couldn’t judge him. Connor had been painfully slow throughout the meeting, barely allowing himself to look at Hudson or even to speak. He had practically left him alone. By the time Hudson spoke up, panic had clouded Connor’s judgment: he had imagined Hudson’s career collapsing, opportunities vanishing, doors quietly closing one by one until he was erased—all while Connor stood there trying to decide whom he was supposed to protect in that moment.

Before going into the room, Nick had warned him: “Let’s avoid provocations. It could be bad for us.” He’d also said that, for CAA, anyone who became a problem—and by “anyone” he meant Hudson or him—would stop being an investment and turn into an obstacle. And obstacles get removed. Not all at once. Slowly.

So when Hudson exploded, Connor blamed himself immediately. He must have looked so fragile, so lost and pathetic that his friend couldn’t take it anymore and reacted. Hudson wasn’t rude—he never had been. He could get angry, yes, but he knew how to measure his words, knew how to maintain that politeness that was an essential part of who he was. So seeing him stand up like that, walk out of a meeting that wasn’t even over, ignore the call of his superiors—that was what truly filled Connor with guilt. He felt as though it had been his decision that pushed Hudson to act against his own nature.

He had said yes. That he would do it. But not for François.

He did it for Hudson.

If he accepted, CAA would settle down. They’d get what they wanted and wouldn’t need to retaliate against him. That’s what he believed in that moment—that he was defusing a bomb before it exploded. Until Hudson decided to blow everything to hell.

He remembered once again the last thing Brad had told him that morning when they parted: “After a provocation like that, what comes next is retaliation.” Connor was scared shitless at the thought of whatever might happen to Hudson..

Even though he hadn’t actually done it, his decision to protect Hudson instead of François stemmed from the fact that choosing not to support his boyfriend wouldn’t really change anything. Maybe it would only make the guerrilla marketing more complicated—but it could still be done. In Hudson’s case, though, if a major company decided to destroy his career, that wasn’t something you escaped easily. Connor believed François would understand somehow… as long as he didn’t directly mention Hudson in the conversation.

François finally came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, water still dripping down his back from his hair.

“Why only one towel?” Connor said, still curled up in a fetal position on the bed, following his boyfriend with his eyes. François looked at him, confused. “Your hair’s dripping. It’s like you’re still in the shower.”

François let out a short nasal laugh, untied the towel from his waist and lifted it to his head. Connor let out a low whistle when François’s naked body was exposed in front of him. François rolled his eyes and hurried to grab some clothes.

Once dressed, François sat at the edge of the bed and stroked Connor’s calves—a silent request for him to sit up. Connor did. He crossed his legs and pulled the pillow back into his lap.

“Are you feeling better now?” François asked, brushed one of Connor’s loose curls into place

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t look very good on the way home,” he murmured.

“Oh…” Connor lowered his gaze and sighed, then looked back at him. “That was a lot of information to start the day with, don’t you think?”

“I’ve been thinking about something,” François said, cupping Connor’s cheek and stroking his left cheekbone. “I don’t want you to do this,” he said at last.

“I don’t understand,” Connor replied, genuinely confused.

“I don’t want you selling your image alongside mine to get something.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to have to go to events with you and pretend, in front of you, that I’m interested in someone else. I mean, I’m an actor—but even so, I don’t think I could do that. I don’t think I could, and I don’t want to.”

“But yesterday you told me—”

“I know,” François cut in, his voice gentle, his hand still resting on Connor’s face. “I know what I said. But I was being irrational. My ambition—wanting more than what I’ve already achieved—made me think of something that ridiculous. And then you, being so damn good to me, decided to support me.” He took a deep breath through his mouth and let it out through his nose. “And I think that was enough. Feeling your unconditional support. Knowing you were willing to do something like that for me, even though I was being selfish.”

“But—”

“It doesn’t matter if there aren’t more offers after this series,” he said with a small smile. “I’ve been in this industry a long time. Taking a break would be fine.” He leaned in and gave Connor a brief kiss on the lips. “You’d be with me. That’s enough.”

Connor felt as though he were standing in the middle of a packed stadium, seconds away from the most important concert of his life. The air vibrating, the lights blinding him, anticipation coursing through his body like electricity. And then, suddenly, everything vanished. The crowd dissolved, the lights snapped off, and the echo swallowed every sound. He was left alone in the middle of an immense, unfamiliar darkness. It was like experiencing the most intense euphoria—only to feel, a second later, completely lost.

He understood what François was saying, and in a way, he was relieved to hear it. But suddenly he felt lost. Because by that logic, the decisions they had already made now had negative consequences for someone else. Because of him. And on top of that, maybe he couldn’t allow himself to feel fully relieved—because if they refused now, the consequences currently hanging over Hudson might simply shift onto them as well.

“Do you have any idea what you’re saying?” Connor hadn’t meant for his voice to come out that hard, but he only realized it after the words had left his mouth and François’ face tightened in confusion.

“Excuse me?”

“Fran…” he sighed. “You saw what they did to me—what they did to Hudson. Are you willing to do this before filming even starts? You know they can find another Scott with any excuse. They wouldn’t care”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does matter, because I already opened my mouth and said I’d do it. I’ll probably get punished for that.”

“There’s no reason for that. You can stick to that plan and promote Robbie with someone else.” He looked away, running a hand through his hair. “Isn’t that even better? For both of us.”

“Fran…”

“I was an idiot,” he said, guilt stamped across his face. “A fucking insecure, jealous, pretentious idiot for even suggesting something like that. I’m really sorry.”

“I agreed.”

“To please me,” François shot back, his voice rising—not shouting at Connor, but frustrated with the situation. “To try to prove you could do certain things for me.”

“It’s not your fault. I wanted to… I wanted to…” Connor searched for the right words. Because in truth, he had never wanted it. On the contrary, he had wanted to say thank you. He had wanted to say you have no idea how relieved I am not to have to do this. But he couldn’t. Instead, he chose the easier path. “I wanted to show you that I could compromise with you,” he finished.

“I know,” François replied, his voice breaking. “But I don’t want this anymore.”

“But unfortunately, it’s not about wanting or not wanting anymore,” Connor said. They practically recited the terms of a contract the three of us already agreed to.”

“But we haven’t signed it.”

“Was I the only one in that meeting?” Connor snapped. “You heard them. They were passive-aggressive the whole time. They made sure we understood that doing what they say is what’s best for us.” He sighed again. “I just… I don’t understand you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have this conversation with me yesterday about how, in some way, I don’t understand your situation in this shitty industry. You sell me this stupidity as the best marketing strategy you could get for your career, and now…” Connor lifted his hands, gesturing vaguely into the air. “Now suddenly it’s the worst thing you could possibly do.”

“Because I didn’t know they’d involve you,” François said at last. “Because I had no fucking idea you would be directly part of that equation.”

“I was from the beginning,” Connor replied, his voice thicker now, making a visible effort not to lose his temper. “And I told you that. I’m your boyfriend. From the moment you decided doing this with Robbie was a good idea, I was directly in the equation.”

“But not like this.”

“No, but wouldn’t I still have to deal with people talking about me? Wouldn’t I still have to watch you get close to another man because it was supposedly best for you? Wouldn’t I have to see headlines, rumors, photos, whatever else—because it was something that would help you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not like we’re returning something to a store. It’s not about buying a pair of pants that doesn’t fit and needing a different size.” Connor shrugged. “We’re talking about work. And honestly, I don’t understand how you’re thinking right now. You can’t just go back and forth on something like this whenever you feel like it. And in some way… I don’t recognize you.”

François looked up, startled.

“I don’t recognize you,” Connor repeated, firmer now. “You’re the one who helped me face all this shit when the series blew up. You advised me. You told me a thousand times not to lose myself along the way. You gave me everything you could to keep me grounded. But now, seeing you like this, I don’t understand it. I don’t understand what you want.”

“I want to not hurt you.”

“You knew you would hurt me the moment you even considered it. When I told you about us and how it would affect me, it didn’t matter.”

“Don’t say that.”

Connor held his gaze for a moment before correcting himself, his voice lower now.

“Fine. Let me rephrase… it wasn’t enough.”

François closed his eyes as if trying to untangle the knot of thoughts in his head, as if that alone might help him find the right way to respond to everything Connor had said. He exhaled—too slowly—then continued without looking at him, his eyes fixed on the closet doors in front of him.

“Maybe I was afraid of feeling insufficient,” he murmured.

“What?”

“You’re young, attractive, popular, beautiful, talented…” François covered his face with his hands. “God, this is ridiculous.”

He turned back to Connor, his eyes carrying a vulnerability that was rare for him.

“I think I was just trying to keep up with you. Not to be you,” he clarified quickly, “but to move at your pace. To be someone on your level. Someone you could be proud of. I didn’t want to become the failure… the forty-year-old man without much success who eventually stops being interesting to you.”

“That’s a little offensive,” Connor replied, though the edge had left his voice. The distress on François’ face had drained his anger. “And at the same time… I think some of this is my fault too.”

“What are you talking about?”

Connor lowered his eyes for a moment before continuing.

“I think I’ve fed your insecurities more than I should have. I let them grow. To the point where believing in what I feel for you hasn’t been that simple for you anymore.” He offered a sad smile. “Sometimes it feels like you’re preparing for the moment I leave you and run off.”

François looked at him then in a way that made Connor’s heart stutter. It wasn’t denial. It wasn’t surprise. It was something closer to confirmation. And to Connor’s surprise, he had no argument to refute it.

“I can’t blame everything on you. I don’t know whether you fed them or not, but things have happened lately that brought us here,” François said at last, his voice lower now. “And I don’t think I’ve behaved like a mature man these past few months either.” He gave a faint, bitter smile. “I feel like I’ve gone back to my twenties.” He shook his head with resignation. “I feel like things slipped out of my hands because I let our relationship become the center of my life.”

“I don’t understand,” Connor said, frowning.

“Even the decision to do this”—he meant the plan with Robbie—“was only because I wanted to be someone who…” He trailed off for a few seconds. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. Tell me.”

“Someone necessary to you.”

The words pierced Connor’s chest with painful precision, as if they had been injected straight into his veins. Because deep down, he knew there was truth in them. In recent months, he had leaned on him less. Without meaning to, he had sent the message that his presence wasn’t indispensable. There was always Hudson. It was always with him that he found balance when everything fell apart. Even in the worst moments, they had known how to hold each other up.

“But you’re my boyfriend,” Connor replied firmly, even as guilt settled heavily in his stomach. “You’re not my damage-control manager. You don’t have to be that involved in my professional life. You’re on the other side of that.”

“I know, I know,” François repeated, running a hand over his face. “That’s why I said I haven’t been mature.” He lowered his gaze, took Connor’s hand between his own, and continued. “Please forgive me.”

Connor watched him, feeling his chest ache.

“I think at this point, walking it back would be much harder, more painful—and probably more dangerous—for our careers. Don’t you think?”

“I’m so sorry,” François’ voice broke.

“Babe.” Connor slipped his hand free and cupped François’ face, forcing him to look at him. “This isn’t a game, and we both know it. You’ve been in this industry for years. When it comes to things like this, we can’t just let our emotions take over.” He pressed a brief kiss to his lips and then another to his cheek. “CAA has already made it clear they don’t take anything lightly. I practically put a noose around my own neck. Mine and…” He thought of Hudson, though he didn’t say his name. “…other people’s.”

Connor stroked François’ cheek before continuing.

“But you won’t be alone. We’re not alone. We have each other. And we’ll make this work.”

He held François’ gaze as he said it, as if he needed to convince himself just as much as him. It hurt to acknowledge what that promise implied. Not the idea of staying together, but the silent cost of keeping it that way. Because “making it work,” at least for now, meant accepting CAA’s game.

François pulled away and covered his face with both hands. The hunched posture made him look smaller. He looked devastated, as if the full weight of what they had done—or failed to do—had suddenly crashed down on him.

“I don’t deserve you, Conn…” he whispered. “I don’t deserve a damn thing from you.”

“Hey.” Connor moved forward on his knees across the bed until he was straddling his lap. François leaned back to accommodate him, wrapped his arms around Connor’s waist, and buried his face in his chest.

At first, Connor didn’t understand what was happening—until he heard the damp sound of broken breathing and felt tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt.

“Baby?” He tried to pull back to look at him, but François held him tighter, gripping his waist to keep him there.

The crying started quietly but grew louder. First muffled sobs, then uneven breaths, fragmented words dissolving against Connor’s chest while he held him and stroked his back in quiet desperation.

“It’s going to be okay,” Connor murmured when he realized he wouldn’t get a response. “It’s going to be okay. They’ll send the contract clause this week. We’ll read it carefully, and then we’ll figure out how to make this less insane.”

François said nothing. He kept clinging to him as if letting go would make him collapse all over again. Gradually, the crying subsided; the sobs turned into deep, steady breaths. Connor waited until he felt the body beneath him stop trembling, then cupped his face in his hands. His eyes were red, lashes wet, skin flushed, nose red and running.

Connor gave him a small smile, took off his T-shirt, and used it to wipe his eyes, cheeks, and nose.

“Look at you. You’re a mess.” He smiled to offer some reassurance, even though inside he was a bundle of nerves.

Seeing him like that made Connor’s chest tighten. François looked so vulnerable that it hurt not to be able to do more to make him feel better.

At some point in their relationship, they had turned sex into a way of reconnecting when words weren’t enough or when they didn’t know how to express what they felt. It was their way of shutting out the external noise, of reminding themselves that beyond everything happening around them, they were still two bodies that knew how to touch each other. So Connor did it again this time. He leaned in and kissed his boyfriend slowly, gently at first, barely brushing his mouth.

François responded almost immediately. His hands, which had been trembling moments before, began to move more firmly along Connor’s back, sliding over his bare skin. Connor deepened the kiss, trying to sync their breathing. He felt warmth rise through his chest, need gathering low in his abdomen. He could feel François’ erection through his pants, pressing against him.

Connor shifted his legs until he was fully seated on François’ lap, letting his body settle against him. He felt the solid response beneath him, the unmistakable reaction beneath him, and part of his mind clung to it as proof. If they both reacted like this, if the desire was immediate, then what had happened the night before—in that room he refused to name, that almost-thing—had meant nothing. He desired François. His body confirmed it, and that had to be enough.

When he reached for his shirt to pull it off completely, François suddenly pulled away as if the contact burned. He gripped Connor firmly by the waist and, in a quick movement, set him down on the floor. Connor barely had time to react; he felt repositioned, like some kind of articulated doll moved without explanation. The hands holding him were tight, almost painful, while his boyfriend breathed hard, trying to regain control.

“Is something wrong?” Connor asked, his heart pounding and his arousal still straining against the fabric of his pants.

“Yes…” François answered between breaths. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Connor blinked, confused.

“What?”

“I love you, Connor. I really love you. I want you more than anyone in the world, but…” He searched for air, for words, for words that could make sense of the chaos in his head.. “Let’s wait until we sort out the contract. Then you and I will talk. About everything. And if after that you still want to be with me, I swear I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll forget anything else.”

The words seemed to enter through one of Connor’s ears and deliberately and exit through the other before his brain had a chance to process them. A knot formed in his throat because, from what little he could grasp, a thousand questions were already taking shape—doubts burning inside him, demanding to be voiced. But fear—of the answer, of what insisting might reveal—sealed his mouth shut.

That same night, just before falling asleep, with François’ arm wrapped around his waist beneath the sheets and Connor still carrying the bitter apathy of having been rejected twice in a row, he picked up his phone only to set an alarm. He was sure he’d fall asleep late and therefore wake up late. That was when he saw the notifications: two missed calls and six messages from Hudson.

His heart lurched so violently he almost felt the physical impact in his chest. Carefully, he slipped out from under the arm holding him and got out of bed. He walked to the bathroom and closed the door quietly, as if even the sound of the handle might betray him. Under the cold white light of the mirror, he opened the messages.

3:30 p.m.: I’ll be waiting in the room. I think we need to talk.
6:21 p.m.: Where are you?
8:30 p.m.: Are you really not coming?
9:40 p.m.: I’m giving you 1 hour to get here.
10:58 p.m.: Connie?
11:33 p.m.: It’s okay. I get it.

“Shit… shit, shit, shit,” he whispered, bracing one hand against the sink.

The hollow drop in his stomach was immediate, like falling without warning—no net, no parachute. He checked the time. It was past 1 a.m. Not much time had passed since the last message. An hour and a half wasn’t that long. Though Hudson could fall asleep in ten minutes.

He had left his phone in the living room when he arrived at François’ condo. He’d been so consumed by the memory of Hudson’s gaze—by that disappointment that pierced his chest every time he replayed it—that it hadn’t even occurred to him Hudson might write. He’d left the phone there deliberately, to avoid torturing himself by staring at a dark screen every five minutes and giving in to the temptation to pressure him.

He knew they had to talk, and at some point that night, while trying to convince himself everything was under control, he had decided he would go see him the next day. They had a few days before returning to filming; he had to fix this within that window, before work swallowed them again.

With slightly trembling fingers, he typed a single message—just one. Hoping that if Hudson was awake, he would reply; and if he wasn’t, that the sound wouldn’t wake him. Hudson almost never turned off his Wi-Fi before going to sleep. Connor stared at the screen for several seconds before sending it, as if that small gesture could alter the course of everything.

“Can you talk now?”

It wasn’t exactly what he meant. What he really meant was: Are you awake? I didn’t ignore you. I hadn’t seen my phone. Are you angry with me?

There were too many questions piled up before getting to what truly mattered, and no way to compress them into a single sentence that carried it all without sounding desperate. Still, he didn’t want to resolve this through texts or through an awkward call at one in the morning. He needed to see him—to see his face, read his silences, defend himself—or surrender—in front of him, not in front of a screen.

He stood there for long minutes, staring at the phone, the white glow illuminating his face in the dark bathroom. He waited for the “typing…” to appear. Waited for it to vibrate. Waited for any sign.

Nothing came.

Chapter End Notes

At first, I didn’t want to publish this first part on its own because I didn’t want it to feel like a “meh” update 😅. But anyway, there’s only one thing left to say: in the next chapter, we’ll finally get the second major turning point in the development of the story.

I hope you enjoy reading ✨😊

Chapter 14: Disappointment pt. 2

Chapter Notes

Just a heads-up: if you received this notification or just opened this chapter, I want to let you know that I posted Part 1 a few hours ago — just so you don’t get confused. 💛

Connor was sitting in front of a cup of coffee and a slice of bread with a bite taken out of it. Leaning slightly over the kitchen counter, he held his phone and scrolled through Instagram’s home feed without stopping on anything in particular. He deliberately—and more quickly than with anything else—skipped any videos where he appeared, especially those involving Hudson or François.

Things had calmed down a bit since the latest photos and videos at the Vancouver airport. In some way, he didn’t want to stumble across anything that might ruin his day. Or at least, add to the anxiety he was already carrying.

The night before, he had slept next to his boyfriend feeling completely alien to him. Counting what had happened the previous night, François had rejected him twice in less than a week. Connor tried to convince himself it was fine—he had rejected François recently too. But at least he had explained his reasons. François, on the other hand, had simply said no without looking him in the eye, his erection straining against his pants like an obvious contradiction.

Connor avoided digging deeper into the reasons. He knew that if he let his mind wander too far, he would land on conclusions he couldn’t bear to even imagine.

He looked at the slice of bread and pushed it aside; he wasn’t going to finish it. Then he lifted the cup and drank the coffee in one gulp, burning his tongue in the process.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He stood up and grabbed a napkin to wipe the thin line of coffee that had slipped from the corner of his mouth. Leaning over the sink, he took a mouthful of water and swished it around, trying to ease the sting before spitting it out.

Hudson hadn’t responded to the message he had sent the night before. And it was already nine. Connor knew he wasn’t still asleep: if he himself had gone to train at seven, Hudson would have gone at six. That left only two options: either he hadn’t touched his phone all morning, or he simply didn’t want to reply. Connor leaned toward the second possibility.

He returned to the stool by the counter just as François came out of the bedroom. He was wearing beige wide-leg pants, his torso bare.

“Good morning,” François said.

“Morning,” Connor replied, not looking up from his phone.

Seeing him that morning didn’t feel pleasant. He was irritated. It wasn’t just that he hadn’t wanted to fuck with him; it was that he hadn’t given him an explanation. François was handling it with an ambiguous narrative that unsettled him, as if there were something else he wasn’t saying. Connor believed he knew him well enough to understand that it wasn’t just stress or feeling overwhelmed by the situation. Besides, he himself had said they needed to talk and that if, after that conversation, Connor still wanted to be with him, then everything would be different.

How was he supposed to wait calmly after hearing that?

His mind began sketching possible scenarios. The worst ones. Did he no longer enjoy sex with him? Was there something about Connor that bothered him? Was their relationship moving too fast? Had he met someone else?

At that last question, his heart tightened. It was the hypothesis that returned most forcefully. Maybe his boyfriend had found someone better—more attentive, more attractive, more mature. Someone who had everything François needed and that Connor couldn’t offer. Because Connor had always considered himself replaceable. He wasn’t the kind of person others tried to hold on to. He was the one who disappointed, the one who ended up hurting the people he loved. It had always been that way.

François poured himself a glass of water. Connor could feel his gaze on him, but he chose to ignore it. He didn’t want to look at him, so he pretended to read some random post on Instagram.

François stepped closer and leaned down to kiss him on the lips, but Connor tilted his head slightly; the kiss landed at the corner of his mouth instead. François pulled back, as if from that distance he could see him more clearly. He frowned, and several seconds passed before he finally spoke.

“Are you mad?”

“I want to be, but I can’t,” Connor answered without looking at him. “I want to tell you no, but that would be a lie.”

“Care to explain?”

Connor sighed and set the phone down on the counter. He turned toward him and took a few seconds before speaking, pausing to take him in. François was so damn handsome—he always had been. Connor liked how expressive his face was, especially on days like this when he hadn’t shaved and faint stubble shadowed his jaw.

“I’m upset,” he finally said. “And I wanted to talk about this last night, but I would’ve been an asshole if I’d done it knowing you felt like shit.”

“Okay…”

“You’ve rejected me twice in what—three days? Two? I don’t know.” François’ face paled. “And I understand if you don’t want to sleep with me, but don’t I deserve an explanation? Or am I supposed to keep jerking off in the bathroom every day?”

“Connor…”

“It’s not just about not having sex. And it annoys me that we’re even having this conversation because the last time we argued, I couldn’t understand why it affected you so much not to do it. I’m contradicting everything I told you that day, I know. But, Fran…” His name came out almost like a plea. “If you gave me an explanation, I’d understand.”

“I told you I’m stressed, that—”

“Liar,” Connor cut in. “Are you going to keep lying to me?”

“When have I lied to you?” François shot back, stepping away and turning his gaze elsewhere as he moved toward the kitchen.

Connor watched him walk away with bitter resignation. He knew he wasn’t going to get anything out of him that morning. Whatever François had to tell him would have to wait. But Connor couldn’t handle the anxiety. The thoughts wouldn’t stop circling in his head, and no matter how much he tried to convince himself he was overreacting, he always ended up in the same place: if something was wrong, it was his fault.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

He hated how his voice sounded. Like someone on death row begging for one last chance.

“Because if I did something wrong, I need you to tell me. Please,” he said, almost pleading.

François turned around. His expression was one of genuine confusion, almost horror.

“What? No,” he said quickly. “God, babe, why would you think you did something wrong?”

“Lately that’s what I do, isn’t it?” Connor replied. “And I’m such an idiot I don’t even realize it. So if I did something to you, I want you to—”

“Hey,” François interrupted, stepping back in front of him. “You didn’t do anything. Nothing wrong. Do you understand?”

Connor’s lips trembled. He pressed them between his teeth to steady himself. He was being fucking dramatic first thing in the morning, all because his boyfriend hadn’t wanted to fuck with him and because his best friend was disappointed in him. François cupped his face and kissed him briefly. This time Connor didn’t dodge it.

“Then what?” Connor asked at last, lifting his gaze to meet his eyes. “Are you sure it’s just stress?”

“It’s just stress,” François repeated, looking away again. “I’ll fix it soon. I promise.”

Connor checked the time and decided it was best to leave. He didn’t want to drag the conversation out if François wasn’t ready to talk; he didn’t want to push him into saying something he didn’t yet have the words for. Besides, he had to talk to Hudson. That was another conversation he couldn’t keep postponing.

The thought made his blood run cold. Not only did he have to explain why he had agreed to CAA’s contractual clause, but also why he had tried to kiss him. Connor didn’t even know if Hudson would bring it up, but his mind was already rehearsing possible answers. Because maybe, if Hudson said nothing, he would jump on that train of pretending it had never happened.

“I have to go,” Connor said.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m heading to the hotel. I need to grab some clothes and… I also need to talk to Hudson.”

François nodded silently.

“See you later?” Connor asked.

“Yeah. I’ll see you later.”

François gave him one last kiss before Connor walked out the door.

***

The first thing Connor did when he arrived at the hotel where the crew was staying was call Hudson. The phone rang twice before going straight to voicemail. Connor frowned and pulled the phone away for a second to look at it, as if the screen might explain something.

Maybe his phone died? he thought.

He tried again. Two rings. Voicemail. Once more. Two rings. Voicemail.

A small knot tightened in his stomach and he immediately switched to their chat. He typed a short message, but it didn’t go through—only one check mark, not two. That could only mean three things: the phone was off, on airplane mode, or Hudson was somewhere with no signal. Hudson sometimes did that when he didn’t want to be disturbed. He went off the grid.

He didn’t think twice before making the decision. He stepped into the hallway and walked straight to Hudson’s room; it was only a few doors down from his. He knocked once. Then twice. Then three times, harder.

“Huddy!” he called, pressing his fist against the wood.

He waited long seconds, but the hallway only answered with the distant hum of wind hitting the building’s windows. He knocked again, this time with an open palm. Maybe Hudson didn’t want to see anyone. Maybe he was still furious. Or maybe something had happened, and Connor just needed to make sure he was okay. But no one opened the door.

Connor went down to the lobby, resignation weighing on his shoulders. Maybe Hudson had gone out and would be back at some point. He could wait.

He dropped into one of the armchairs, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together, trying to sort through the chaos in his head. The question was simple and, at the same time, impossibly complex: how do you start that conversation? He always came back to the same answer—from the beginning.

But he had arrived at the hotel with his mind completely blank. What would he say if Hudson asked why he had tried to kiss him? Blaming it on vulnerability would make him sound like an idiot—and it wasn’t entirely true. It hadn’t been just fragility.

The thought hit him like a slap across the face, like his inner self shaking him, telling him to stop avoiding it. Because if it hadn’t only been vulnerability — if his body had simply decided on its own — his stomach hollowed out at the thought. Wouldn’t that make him a traitor?

He had tried to kiss his best friend while still in a relationship with François. A tight, bubbling sensation rose in his throat, a pressure in his chest that made his legs feel weak. Until that moment, he hadn’t wanted to name what had happened. He had almost cheated on his boyfriend. And not with just anyone—but with the very person who had been at the center of so many arguments, so many insecurities Connor had always minimized, assuring François he was seeing ghosts where there were none.

His stomach hollowed out at the thought. It wasn’t a single clear idea—more like fragments swirling in his head, taking on an almost physical shape. He tried to push it away. Told himself it had no basis, that he was building theories out of silence. But the pressure in his chest remained.

He decided the most sensible thing was to start with the least complicated part: explain why he had accepted CAA’s proposal. That was solid ground. What he would not tell Hudson—that he was certain of—was that he had done it for him.

No one knew Hudson the way Connor did. Sometimes he even allowed himself to think that not even Kiley understood him entirely. Or maybe they just knew different versions. It didn’t matter. What he did know was that if he told Hudson he had agreed to protect him, Hudson would carry that guilt as if it were his own. And Connor wasn’t willing to add another weight to his shoulders.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and minutes into hours. Connor remained seated in the lobby armchair, phone resting on his thigh, eyes fixed on the screen. Every so often he unlocked it just to confirm nothing had changed. The message still showed as undelivered.

Then he saw Jacob walk in with part of the team. Justin Stockman was laughing at something Lori Fischburg had said.

“Connor!” Jacob called as soon as he recognized him. “Where’ve you been, kid?”

Connor stood up almost on instinct. He smiled, shook hands, accepted pats on the back. He hugged Jacob a little tighter than usual.

“I was looking for you last night,” Jacob added. “Did you get locked out?” he joked.

Connor let out a brief, barely visible laugh.

Jacob was one of the few people Connor was almost certain knew about François. He never asked, never hinted directly, and pretended not to suspect anything. Connor already appreciated him, but that respect for his private life made him genuinely fond of him.

“Yeah,” Connor replied, shrugging, trying to look casual.

“We’re grabbing a drink. Meeting up with some others,” Justin said. “You in?”

Connor hesitated. He glanced at his phone. He didn’t want to leave the lobby. Not while he was still waiting for Hudson.

“I don’t know… Where are you going? Can I catch up with you later? I’m waiting for Huddy.”

Jacob frowned slightly.

“For Hudson? He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Connor felt a jolt at the base of his neck. He forced himself not to jump to the worst conclusion, even though his mind had already done exactly that—especially after hours without a response.

“Since we have to stay a few more days before going back to filming, you guys were free as soon as you wrapped up those two meetings yesterday,” Jacob explained. “Hudson flew back to Vancouver early this morning.” He paused briefly. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Uh… no,” Connor said, clearly thrown.

Jacob slid an arm around Connor’s back and gently steered him toward the door.

“Then you’re coming with us,” he decided, and Connor didn’t resist.

His legs felt stiff, as if he were dragging his feet across the polished floor. A faint hollowness settled in his stomach, unrelated to the meager breakfast. His heart sped up, his pulse thudding in his temples.

If Hudson had gone to Vancouver, it was to fix things with Kiley.

Connor should be happy, shouldn’t he?

His friend had had a rough few days. The distance had been weighing on him, and the relationship had felt off for a while. In fact, something had shifted the moment Hudson stopped talking about it with him. Connor tried to focus on that, to remind himself that this was the right thing. That it was what he was supposed to want.

But he didn’t feel happy.

And that made him feel selfish.

He had been buried in his own drama, with the advantage of having his partner nearby, with the possibility—at least in theory—of talking things through, of trying to fix them. Hudson didn’t have that immediacy, so for him it must have been harder.

Even so, the idea of him fixing it left a persistent discomfort. He felt like a terrible friend for even thinking that. He gave his head a quick shake, as if he could clear the noise beginning to build inside it.

Because he liked Kiley. He really did.

But…

But what?

There wasn’t a “but” that sounded legitimate.

Hudson and he had talked about redefining boundaries. They had taken it seriously for a couple of days, and then everything slipped back into its usual rhythm, as if that conversation had been left suspended somewhere neither of them wanted to revisit. Connor tried to convince himself that this was the root of his unease: that if Hudson fixed his relationship, something between them would change. That maybe he would come back with that pending conversation in hand. A version 2.0 of boundaries.

And Connor wasn’t ready to face it.

***

“I’m serious,” Sophie said, lifting her beer to her lips. Before taking a sip, she pulled it back slightly to add, “Being a straight woman is an extreme sport. And being a gay man in love with straight guys is basically an autoimmune disease.”

Connor laughed, finishing his sixth glass.

They had met at the same restaurant he’d gone to with Jacob three days earlier. Sophie had been insisting for weeks that the three of them go out together. She’d been disappointed when Connor told her Hudson had flown to Vancouver, but she’d immediately adjusted the plan: it would just be the two of them.

Connor genuinely liked Sophie. During the first season they hadn’t shared much time on set, but later they’d grown closer through her friendship with François. He hadn’t had the chance before, which is why she’d texted him early that morning: I’m claiming your time tonight. If you have plans, cancel them.

Connor wasn’t about to make excuses. In fact, he needed to do something. Go out with someone different. Talk about trivial things. Drink enough to feel that small, satisfying break from his discipline. He needed distance—from the drama of his temporarily celibate relationship and from the absence of his best friend.

Hudson had replied the night Connor found out he’d gone to Vancouver, but only with: I’m with Kiley. We’ll talk later.

Connor had opened that chat at least twenty times in the days since. He’d wanted to write something. Ask if everything was okay, if they’d worked things out, if Hudson was mad at him. But the silence—when they used to talk almost every day—had turned into an uncomfortable reminder: the conversation about Boundaries 2.0 was probably waiting for them when they saw each other again.

His conflicted feelings about Hudson reconciling with his girlfriend had convinced him that giving him space was the right thing to do. Because if he thought about them too much, he reached a point where it became hard to regulate his breathing, and a sour mood settled over him.

He’d even had a sharp argument with François that hadn’t escalated, sparked solely by that poorly managed frustration. François had apologized afterward, and Connor had felt worse—because from the outside, it probably looked like something it wasn’t: a guy frustrated over a lack of sex.

“But anyway,” Sophie continued, “when do you start filming again?”

“Next week.” Connor leaned back as the waiter set down two large glasses of craft beer. “Though I think I’m flying to Winnipeg the day before for a Lululemon photoshoot.”

“Oooh,” she cheered. “A businessman who never rests.”

Connor raised an eyebrow.

“It’s going to get complicated soon. My schedule’s locked for the next few months. It’s about to get a little chaotic.”

“I’ll tell you my news later,” Sophie announced, pointing at him with her glass. “And when it happens, we’re going out to celebrate.”

“Are you going to introduce me to whoever you’re dating that day?” Connor asked just to tease her. Since their first beer, Sophie hadn’t stopped ranting.

“No, thank you.” She drank until the glass was half empty. “Next time I’ll fall in love with a plant. At least if it ignores me, it’ll be because it needs sunlight, not therapy.”

“I doubt it went that badly,” Connor replied. “You’re gorgeous, funny… a little clumsy, sure, but you’re a great catch.”

“Tell that to the damn men.” She slapped her palm against the table; a few heads turned, but no one really paid attention. “You know what? It doesn’t even work with plants. I take it back. I tried with a ficus and that didn’t work either.”

“Why? Too demanding?” he joked.

“Worse. It dropped its leaves every time I started getting attached.”

Connor laughed. He felt a light relief spread through his chest, the quiet confirmation that he’d done the right thing by coming out with her. He was calmer than he’d been in weeks.

“You do realize you’re talking to a man, right?”

“But you’re not that kind of man,” she shot back immediately. “You’re limited edition. I’m talking about the basic package—no emotional intelligence installed. And besides, you’re not straight. Shut up.”

“God forbid,” Connor said, raising his glass.

Sophie lifted hers and clinked it against his; their glasses chimed between them..

“Amen.”

Connor patted his pant pockets. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he checked the jacket resting on the chair beside him.

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Not at all.” She made a careless wave with her hand. “I hate you.”

Connor looked at her, amused.

“Context?”

“Do you know how hard I’m going to have to kill myself at the gym to burn off everything I’m eating and drinking tonight? And look at you—ninety percent muscle, not afraid of cigarettes, food, or beer.”

“Hey, don’t demonize any of this.” Connor rolled his eyes. “If you have a bad relationship with food—or with what makes you happy—you’ll never fully enjoy anything. You end up stuck in this kind of infernal loop.”

“But it’s true.”

“No, it’s not.”

He lit the cigarette and took a long drag before continuing:

“We only live this life once. The next ones will be about learning something else—and it might not even be this that makes you happy then. If in this life you like to eat, eat. If you like to dance, dance. If you like being a horny old woman, go for it.”

“Hey!” Sophie burst out laughing. “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“Not exactly…” Connor thought for a moment. “Well, if I don’t want to overcomplicate it, I’ll say yes. I think everyone has some kind of…” He moved his hands, searching for the word as the smoke dissolved into the air. “Lessons?”

He squinted at her, as if making sure he wasn’t sounding ridiculous. Sophie nodded, so he went on.

“More than reincarnation, I see it as a kind of soul contract. Each of us has a certain number of lives. Before you start, you choose what you’re going to experience. Then you come here and go through multiple situations that confront you with the same thing until you finally learn to live with it, heal it, or resolve it. And if you don’t learn the lesson… you’ll probably repeat it in the next one.”

“Like a karmic cycle?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Are you trying to say I came into this life to turn lesbian because men aren’t worth it?”

Connor laughed out loud.

“Aren’t you bisexual?”

“Exactly.” Sophie raised her glass. “My lesson in this life is to go full lesbian.”

“Good for you. I’d rather keep being fluid about it,” Connor said, coughing slightly on the smoke.

“Fine, but maybe you should…” Sophie seemed to think better of it and fell silent.

“What?”

“Never mind.” She waved a hand. “I don’t want to talk about anything serious right now.”

“Aren’t those the kinds of conversations friends have when they’re drinking?”

Sophie gave him a small smile. She shifted in her seat and placed her hands on the table. Connor understood the invitation; he moved his hand closer, and she covered it gently with hers.

“Did you just call me a friend?” she asked in a teasing tone, her eyes theatrically misty.

“Fuck off. What are we, then?”

“I’ve always wanted to be your friend. But sometimes I feel like you only see me as a very close acquaintance.”

“Because I don’t tell you my problems?”

“Because you’re a fucking idiot who doesn’t even text me.”

Connor leaned a little closer to her.

“I will from now on,” he said, serious this time. “I’ve missed out on a lot by not going out alone with you.”

“Run away with me.” She winked.

“What if we start by being friends?”

Sophie burst out laughing.

“I’m insufferable as a friend. You’re not getting away from me anymore, got it? But I’m the best friend you could ever have.”

Connor took that in sincerely. And without meaning to, it reminded him of her situation with François. They had been friends before anything else. And now that friendship felt like it was starting to crack.

Without overthinking it, he spoke.

“By the way… there’s something I want to ask you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Did you fight with François?”

Sophie’s smile disappeared.

A tight knot formed in Connor’s stomach. He didn’t want to ruin the mood. They had been having fun. But François hadn’t said anything—and didn’t seem like he was going to. And Sophie’s reaction didn’t match a trivial argument.

“Oh, oh…” Connor muttered. “Was it that bad?”

“Did you talk to him?” she asked, straightening up, eyes widening. “What did he tell you?”

Connor shook his head, confused.

“Nothing.”

“Oh.”

She didn’t add anything else.

“Aren’t you going to talk to him?”

“No.” It came out sharp. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it. But your boyf—” she stopped herself. “François isn’t someone I think I can be compatible with. Not anymore.”

“I’m worried.”

Sophie held his gaze for several seconds. There was something in her eyes that seemed to be trying to break through him, but Connor couldn’t decipher it.

“You’re so beautiful, Connor. And I don’t mean physically. I mean everything you are. You’re a beautiful human being.”

Connor smiled at that. It felt like a small bandage over his soul. It wasn’t something he truly believed about himself—especially not these days—no matter how often people told him. When it came from someone close to him, it was even harder to accept. But hearing it from Sophie, who didn’t occupy that intimate space in his life, made it easier to believe for a moment that maybe he was someone worth staying for. Someone people deserved to have around.

Connor had a talent for projecting flawless confidence—about knowing his worth, what he brought to the table, the space he occupied. He said it with conviction, as if doubt had no room to exist.

But deep down, it was mostly rehearsed.

He repeated it like a mantra, hoping that one day it would stop sounding practiced and start feeling true. What came out of his mouth wasn’t exactly a lie; it was the version of himself he wanted to inhabit. It just wasn’t fully real yet.

“I want you to be happy,” Sophie continued. “You deserve that. And I’m sorry, but that happiness isn’t with François. I know I should shut up. I’m drunk and I’ll probably regret opening my mouth tomorrow, but right now I’d rather listen to what my head is telling me.” She tapped her temple with a touch of drama. “I’m sure at some point he’ll tell you. I’m sure he’s planning to. And if not… maybe the universe put me here to plant the doubt.” She shrugged. “François doesn’t deserve you.”

The ground gave way beneath Connor’s feet.

His saliva turned thick. His body suddenly felt only loosely connected to what was happening. He could have imagined a lot of things coming out of Sophie’s mouth. Even that the argument had been serious. But not that.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his throat tight.

“I guess there’s no point in—”

Sophie’s phone started ringing.

Connor’s heart jumped into his throat. In that moment, he was nothing but nerves.

Sophie rummaged through her bag until she found her phone. When she looked at the screen, her face lit up.

“You bastard,” she said as she answered.

The world around him went silent.

The bar was still there—the flickering lights, people gesturing animatedly, glasses clinking—but everything went mute. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, so loud it drowned out everything else.

He saw Sophie smiling at the phone, but—

What did she mean?

If she knew something, why wouldn’t she just say it?

He wanted to snatch the phone out of her hand. Demand she be direct. But his fingers wouldn’t move.

Connor kept his eyes locked on Sophie, as if he could pierce through her with his gaze. He begged her, silently, to read him. To understand that if she didn’t say something right now, he was going to lose his mind. But Sophie was drunk, not fully present, and Connor wasn’t much better. Maybe that was why everything felt amplified.

“No, I’m not alone,” he suddenly heard her say. “Wait, here.”

She held the phone out to him.

Connor took it on reflex, as if his brain needed to perform a task to keep from collapsing. He brought it to his ear.

“Hello?”

Sophie was grinning widely as she finished the rest of her beer. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth, as if nausea had surged up without warning. She closed her eyes, trying to steady herself.

“Hello?” Connor repeated when no one answered.

“Hi.”

It was Hudson.

His voice came out low, almost a whisper, a sigh dragging at the end of it.

The numbness wrapped around him vanished instantly. Like someone had flipped on a light in a sealed room. Suddenly he was wide awake.

“Oh…” The words tangled in his mouth. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t need to see him to know he was uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” Connor said at last. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I didn’t know Sophie—”

“It’s fine,” Hudson cut in. “I have to go.”

The call ended before Connor could even say goodbye.

If someone had driven a knife into his chest in that moment, it probably would have hurt less.

He stared at the screen for several seconds, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

“Did he hang up?” Sophie asked, annoyed.

“He had to go,” Connor replied.

He wasn’t sure if that was a lie. Technically, that’s what Hudson had said.

“Ugh…” Sophie pressed a hand to her stomach. “Connor, I think I’m going to throw up.”

She stood abruptly and rushed toward the bathroom.

***

Connor dropped Sophie off at her hotel. She was so drunk she barely stirred when they arrived; for most of the ride back she had been asleep, her head resting on his shoulder, her warm, steady breathing brushing against his neck.

They didn’t talk about what she had said about François.

After Hudson’s call, Connor had lost whatever inner balance he’d had. It wasn’t sadness, exactly— more a feeling of being off-kilter, as if the ground beneath his feet were no longer solid. He could barely form complete sentences without feeling something inside him start to crumble.

Hudson had seemed kind to Sophie—at least that’s how Connor remembered it, because she’d been chattering and giggling. That lasted until she handed him the phone. Then there had been silence.

Silence had never really been part of their dynamic. Not that kind of strained, uncomfortable silence. But it had served one purpose: if Connor had harbored any doubt about whether Hudson was upset with him, that doubt was dead and buried.

When he reached his hotel, he stepped out of the elevator on the wrong floor. He walked a few steps down the carpeted hallway, staring at the doors as if they weren’t identical—though they were. He stopped, trying to remember his room number.

He hadn’t spent a single night there. He had only used the room the day Hudson left for Vancouver. So he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes for a few seconds, trying to focus. The hallway seemed to tilt gently as he remembered the key card. He pulled it from his pocket and squinted at the number printed on the plastic, as if solving a complicated riddle. With that small clue, he managed to find the right door.

When he walked in, his foot caught on the threshold and he nearly fell. His stomach lurched violently, threatening to bring back everything he’d eaten and drunk that day. Everything spun—slowly but persistently—like he was trapped inside a slow-moving storm.

He stripped as he moved toward the bathroom, letting his clothes fall carelessly: shoes by the sofa, pants in the middle of the room, shirt over a chair, underwear wherever it landed.

He stepped into the shower and turned the handle until hot water began striking his back. He stood there, motionless.

François doesn’t deserve you.

The sentence came back with brutal clarity, stabbing at his temples.

Connor had never believed anyone had the authority to decide who deserved whom. Relationships weren’t prizes or punishments. But this time, it wasn’t just anyone saying it. It was Sophie. His boyfriend’s friend. The one who now didn’t want to speak to him.

Was her judgment clouded by the fight? Was it resentment? Dramatics amplified by alcohol?

He shook his head slightly under the water. From what he knew of Sophie—from what he’d seen in her eyes that night—she wasn’t speaking from spite. She wasn’t vindictive. She wasn’t cruel.

So what did she see that he didn’t? And what did “not deserving” even mean?

He stepped out of the shower and wiped the fogged mirror with his palm. The reflection that emerged looked wrecked: reddened eyes, pale skin, damp hair plastered to his forehead. He looked like shit.

The memory of Hudson hit him again. The low voice. The distance. The way he had ended the call.

Had he disappointed him that badly?

And then, as if the universe enjoyed synchronizing misfortunes, his phone began ringing in the living room.

Connor walked out of the bathroom still damp, steadying himself against the walls because the floor felt unstable beneath his feet. He bent to pick up his pants from the floor and nearly lost his balance as he searched the pocket for his phone.

The screen lit up the room, the brightness cutting through his eyes.

It was François.

His stomach clenched instantly—a reaction so physical it exposed the chaos inside him. The call kept coming. Connor felt his pulse quicken in his throat. His mind wasn’t forming theories, but his body was screaming them anyway.

He set the phone on the table without answering.

And this time he didn’t walk—he ran to the bathroom, bumping into things along the way, his coordination failing him. He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet just as the nausea doubled him over. The vomit came in harsh, burning waves, tearing the air from his lungs. Beer, food, acid—everything expelled in a desperate purge.

When there was nothing left, his body kept trying. Dry heaves that scraped his throat raw.

Then he stayed there for a few seconds, breathing unevenly.

A moment later, he leaned back against the wall and slid slowly down until he was sitting on the cold floor. Legs stretched out, back against the tiles, arms hanging limply at his sides.

He had his eyes closed while everything spun around him. And again, Hudson.

Connor imagined Hudson with Kiley. Asleep, wrapped around each other. Or fucking to celebrate getting back together. As if the body were the contract sealing the words they had barely managed to fix. They would make the most of every minute before he had to leave again for filming. They would cook together, go grocery shopping like a normal couple, laugh in the kitchen, grope each other in whatever corner of the house they happened to pass through. They would squeeze every last drop out of it.

Connor smiled without humor. A sour, unsettling feeling coiled in his chest, and no matter how hard he tried to push it away, it wouldn’t budge.

He didn’t like imagining him touching her. He didn’t like picturing her moaning under him. He didn’t like knowing that with her it could be that simple. That he could love her like that.

“Shut up,” he said out loud, teeth clenched, speaking to himself—to the voice in his head. “Please, shut up.”

He turned his head and opened his eyes. The light struck his skull like a hammer.

He struggled to his feet and stepped back into the shower. This time he didn’t adjust the temperature. He let the hot water pour down his back until it began to burn, until his skin turned red.

He didn’t want to think about Hudson like that. He didn’t. And he tried to tell himself it was the alcohol, that it was the distance, that Hudson was mad at him. He couldn’t—he wasn’t allowed to feel something for Hudson, because it would ruin everything.

But that’s me, isn’t it? he thought bitterly. The one who always ruins everything.

He stayed under the water a few seconds longer, breathing unevenly, as if trying to drown the thought. When he stepped out, his movements were a little steadier. Steam still fogged the bathroom. He approached the mirror and wiped a strip clear with his palm.

He looked at himself and noticed tears mixed with the water. He frowned, confused.

When had he started crying?

“Fuck.”

If Connor allowed himself to think of Hudson as anything more than his best friend, the very idea made him dizzy. It wasn’t that he had never found him attractive—of course he had. Maybe since the first time he saw him, when they did that chemistry read through a screen.

He remembered that moment with the clarity of something that had happened seconds ago. They had been asked to perform a scene and, suddenly, Jacob’s image disappeared, leaving just the two of them in the video call. Connor had done similar reads with other actors and it had always flowed naturally, as if the script set the rhythm. But with Hudson it was different. At first, he had gone quiet. He couldn’t deliver the first line right away because something about the way Hudson looked at him threw him off balance. It wasn’t an extraordinary look—it was just Hudson’s look. In that moment, Hudson hadn’t spoken either. They had stared at each other for several seconds that felt endless, until they both let out a nervous laugh that broke the tension.

Connor hadn’t thought much about that first encounter at the time. But later, remembering it, he began to see it differently. As if that first exchange had carried something karmic. It had felt like two souls meeting again, somehow destined to cross paths in this life. The nerves lasted only a few minutes; after that, the connection was immediate. All Connor remembered from that day was the sensation of flowing effortlessly, as if he weren’t acting at all—just being himself.

When Jacob had asked him who he’d had the most chemistry with, he hadn’t hesitated.

“The third one. I think his name is Hudson.”

And now he was Huddy. His Huddy.

He left the bathroom and collapsed naked onto the couch by the hotel room window. He let out a heavy sigh and sprawled there, head resting against the back of the sofa, staring at the dark ceiling. His heart pounded hard against his ribs, as if trying to break free, and his mind strained painfully around an idea it refused to fully articulate.

He thought of François, and a wave of guilt tightened his throat. What if there was something more in what he felt for Hudson? The question alone churned his stomach. He thought about how unfair it would be—for Hudson—if Connor crossed that line. Hudson, who had been with Kiley for years, who loved her loyally. Hudson, who had defended their friendship so many times without suspecting that maybe, somewhere in an uncomfortable corner, Connor might look at him as something more than a friend. Might look at him as a man.

He sat up abruptly, unable to stay still with that pressure in his chest. He walked quickly to the closet where his suitcase was. His hands were shaking—or at least it felt that way. He opened the suitcase, searching for something to wear, though there wasn’t much left; most of his clothes were at François’ place.

He pulled on a pair of black boxers, and when his hands failed to coordinate enough to choose a shirt, he hurled the suitcase onto the floor. His thoughts ricocheted between Hudson and François, making bile rise again, trying to claw its way back up his throat.

“No, no, no…” he whispered to himself. “Please, no.”

He remembered the urgency from a few nights ago—the almost desperate need to fuck François after feeling that impulse to kiss Hudson. As if the desire had burned him from the inside out. As if he had tried to erase one image with another. The guilt thickened when he considered what that meant, because his relationship with François wasn’t an open one. There were no gray areas, no tacit agreements to see, kiss, or sleep with other people—not without it being considered a betrayal. Their relationship was monogamous. And more than that, it was something built with the future in mind. It was serious.

François doesn’t deserve you.

Sophie’s voice echoed in his head, but was that supposed to be comfort? No.

How was he supposed to look at François with that thought pulsing like a constant alarm in his mind? How was he going to hold his gaze the next time a flicker of jealousy appeared? Telling Hudson wasn’t an option. Telling François didn’t seem viable either. But hiding it—wasn’t that already a form of betrayal?

His heart jolted at the nearly inevitable idea of confession. Because he loved him—he truly loved him—and he didn’t want to lose him. He didn’t want to blow everything up over a doubt he still didn’t even know how to name.

Do you love him, or did you just get used to being with him?

The sentence came back with the precision of a gunshot. It lodged in his head, settling over the memory of that almost frantic urgency to cling to François’ body as if desire could serve as proof. As if he needed to confirm that he still burned for him—and that it would be enough to silence anything else.

He shook his head several times, as if the motion alone might convince his heart. But his breathing turned uneven. The room began to feel smaller, as if the air itself had suddenly shrunk. He braced his hands against the TV stand, trying to steady himself.

“You don’t like him,” he told himself. “You’re confused and drunk.”

He repeated that he was mixing things up: the calm Hudson gave him, the peace he found in him, the safety of knowing he was always there. But the word hypocrite surfaced with unbearable clarity. He couldn’t pretend it was all platonic when his body had reacted—when he had taken that thought so far that he had even masturbated thinking about him.

“No!” he said under his breath. “You didn’t, you didn’t, you—”

But he knew he had. That he had tried to replace one image with another. That he had forced his mind toward François with such desperate insistence it had barely worked. Even when he’d come with the final image of his boyfriend in mind, it hadn’t felt like enough—because that wasn’t the image his body had summoned to feel complete.

He had needed it to be Hudson.

“François…” he whispered, his voice breaking. “God… I’m so sorry.”

Connor swayed slightly, dizzy. He grabbed a towel and wiped his face with clumsy movements, breathing through his mouth.

The phone started ringing again in the living room, and his body tensed on instinct. He knew it was François. But he didn’t want to talk to him—not now, not like this. Not with thoughts of Hudson shredding his mind. Not with the suspicion that something was happening with him at this very moment. Not this drunk and not in control of his words.

He didn’t answer.

***

When Connor opened the door to François’ condo, he found him sitting on the living room couch. He looked up from his phone, and his eyes widened the moment he saw him., and he stood up at once.

“God, are you okay?”

No, I’m not, he wanted to say.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer last night. I was too drunk and passed out.”

“It’s okay.”

François stepped forward and wrapped him in a warm embrace. Connor returned it, gripping his waist and burying his face against his chest and neck. His body felt good against his. His scent, his closeness. François was warm—he was. And in that moment Connor thought Sophie was wrong, or maybe too drunk to phrase things properly. It wasn’t François who didn’t deserve Connor. It was Connor who didn’t deserve François.

Because there he was, hugging his boyfriend after spending the entire night going over, one by one, all the reasons why he shouldn’t be attracted to another man.

The man who had indirectly caused so many cracks in their relationship. The man whose name alone was enough to open arguments neither of them ever fully knew how to close. And still, there he was, clinging to François, feeling the heat of his body, the solid weight of his arms around his back. Receiving affection after having deliberately ignored him the night before.

There he was, holding his boyfriend while remorse gnawed at him for having felt the impulse to kiss someone else. And François had no idea.

François pulled back from the hug to get a better look at him. He cradled Connor’s face in his hands and turned it gently from side to side, checking that he was truly okay.

“Do you have a hangover?” Connor nodded. “Have you taken anything yet?” Connor shook his head.

François kissed his forehead and then his cheek. Connor closed his eyes and accepted the gestures in silence, with a torturous gratitude. Because he couldn’t stop thinking that maybe those kisses would be the last.

He had spent the entire night turning it over in his mind. Even with his mind clouded and his body still heavy from the alcohol. But he knew it was right when he woke up and the idea that had been born in that hazy state hadn’t disappeared. He had to talk to François.

Connor knew that conversation could only end in two ways. Either they would explode into a fight that shattered them for good, or François would look at him with that devastating calm and quietly end it.

He felt like the worst person in the world, though he wasn’t surprised. He’d always been like this, hadn’t he? The one who complicates what is simple. The one who hurts without meaning to—or maybe meaning to, just a little—those who love him. The one who ends up ruining everything. That was him.

“I’ll go get you something to help,” François said as he turned to grab his coat.

Connor stopped him, curling his fingers around his wrist.

“Where are you going?”

“To the pharmacy.” He gestured toward the window, as if the place were visible from that angle. “I’ll bring you some Condition or Hovenia.”

Connor’s chest tightened at the words.

The recommendation had come from Hudson’s mother, in some trivial conversation about hangovers and miracle remedies. Just an anecdote at the time. Not now.

The association was immediate, and his stomach tightened. The words still had no shape—just a tangled mass he couldn’t organize.

Connor didn’t know where to begin. The words still had no shape. They were a tangled mass he couldn’t organize. Maybe it would be better to let François leave, buy himself a few more minutes to brace for it, to structure something that didn’t sound like betrayal. Even though it was.

He didn’t know whether he should start by justifying himself, or simply say: I tried to kiss him. Please forgive me. It won’t happen again.

But François would surely ask questions. And eventually he’d have to confess something he hadn’t even fully admitted to himself: I like Hudson. Not just as a friend. I’m sorry.

“Can you not take long?” His voice barely came out above a whisper. His heart was pounding so hard he feared François could hear it. “I need to talk to you about something.”

François stopped in his tracks. He turned slowly, concern immediate on his face. Connor forced a smile. He knew—even before he saw it reflected in his boyfriend’s eyes—that it wasn’t convincing. François didn’t say anything, but he didn’t believe it either.

“Did you talk to Sophie?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, yes.” Connor tilted his head, thrown off by the shift. “We spent the night together. Of course we talked.” He let out an awkward laugh. “Why?”

“No… nothing…” François replied too quickly.

He was nervous.

Sophie’s words came back in a rush: François doesn’t deserve you.

What if she hadn’t been as drunk as she seemed? What if she had said exactly what she meant?

No.

Connor cut the thought off immediately. He forced the thought away. He could see clearly where his mind was leaning: toward using what Sophie had said as emotional justification. As if planting doubt were enough to excuse what he felt—and what he had tried to do.

No.

“Go quickly. I’ll wait,” he said, leaning in to give him a brief kiss. But when he tried to pull away, François gently caught his hair and deepened it.

Connor returned it with a surrender that felt dangerously close to goodbye. Because part of him couldn’t stop thinking that maybe this would be the last time, too.

“CAA sent the clause,” François said as he put on his coat. “We can read it together after we talk, if you want. I haven’t. I don’t think it’s necessary… if I’m not going to do it.”

Connor looked at him with a weariness that had nothing to do with the hangover. They’d already had that conversation. It wasn’t simply about wanting to or not wanting to. Doing it now would be the easiest option. The most efficient way to come out unscathed without facing consequences they might later regret.

“We’ll read it,” he said finally, before letting himself drop onto the couch as if his body weighed twice as much.

Connor stared at the landscape through the window. The gray morning sky stretched over the city like a damp sheet; the trees stood motionless, so still they looked like part of a photograph. There was no wind. Barely any birds. If the sun was still there, it remained hidden.

He wondered what it would be like to comply with that clause once things between them turned uncomfortable. Once he told him about Hudson. Once the conversation finished breaking what they had been trying to hold together with blood.

He shifted restlessly on the couch. François had only been gone a couple of minutes, but the wait felt excessive, as if time had deliberately slowed down. He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened his email. There it was: the message from CAA with the clause attached.

To keep his mind busy—or to avoid thinking about what he actually had to say—he decided to open the file and read it while François was out. Maybe that would make time move faster. Maybe the pressure in his chest would ease a little.

He knew the sensible thing would be to rehearse how to start the conversation, or at least organize his thoughts. But he didn’t want to rehearse anything. Whatever came out would come out. He would accept the consequences. He would accept it if François got angry. He would accept it if he decided to end things.

Even if it terrified him.

The file took a while to load, and when it finally did, Connor sighed at the length of the document. Too long to read on his phone. He exhaled tiredly, then stood and walked to the bedroom. He grabbed François’ MacBook and returned to the living room. He opened it on the table and went straight to the browser.

He was about to switch accounts—his email was always logged in on his boyfriend’s laptop—when a subject line caught his attention.

Hotel JW Marriott.

Connor smiled faintly. He remembered the time they’d fought and François had disappeared for a week—maybe longer. Later he’d found out he’d stayed in a suite at that hotel, though he’d never wanted to say how much he’d paid.

He opened the email out of curiosity, just to give his mind something to latch onto—anything to distract it from the chaos swirling inside his head. He scrolled straight to the total, and his eyes widened.

“You really are fucking ridiculous…” he muttered to himself with half a smile—but the smile vanished instantly. The total was obscene. “How do you pay almost two thousand dollars for this?”

An uneasy twinge tightened in his stomach. That fight had pushed him into it. Or at least, that’s what Connor had believed. Though, if he was honest, there were cheaper hotels. Much cheaper. But François had always been like that. Excessive. Refined.

Connor kept staring at the number as if it might justify itself. As if looking at it long enough would restore some kind of logic. Then something didn’t add up. He scrolled back up. Reread the date.

The electronic invoice was from last week.

His mind took a second to process it.

It wasn’t Vancouver.

It was Montreal.

And the date didn’t line up with their fight.

Connor read the entire invoice this time.

ELECTRONIC INVOICE
Invoice number: JWMV-2024-34782
Hotel JW Marriott Montreal
Guest name: François Arnaud
Room: 1712 – King Deluxe
Check-in: xxx – 16:08
Check-out: xxx – 11:42
Stay: 3 nights / 4 days
Registered occupancy: 2 adults

Subtotal: CAD 1,515.00
GST (5%): CAD 75.75
PST (7%): CAD 106.05
Total: CAD 1,696.80
Payment method: Visa **** 4821
Authorization: 874392
Status: Paid

Thank you for choosing JW Marriott. We look forward to welcoming you again.

“Two adults?”

The impact landed like a solid punch straight to the center of his stomach.

He smiled awkwardly—an automatic, ridiculous reflex. He exhaled slowly and read it again.

He shook his head. No.

His hands began to tremble as the idea took shape.

He went to the email search bar and typed the hotel’s name. A second message appeared almost immediately.

Connor felt his soul leave his body through every pore of his skin.

Another electronic invoice. He opened it.

His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. His hands vibrated against the keyboard. His breathing turned short and uneven. This time, the location matched Vancouver. The week they had argued.

But the detail wasn’t the city. It was the line on the registered occupancy.

2 adults.

Connor blinked. Read it again. Two adults.

The air didn’t fully make it into his lungs. He slammed the laptop shut, as if that might undo what he had just seen. As if the sharp snap of the lid closing could erase the line still burning behind his eyes. Two seconds. That was all the denial lasted. He opened it again.

His hands shook as he downloaded the attached file. The document took only a moment to load, but to Connor it felt eternal. He could feel blood hammering in his temples.

He opened the itemized breakdown. His stomach churned.

Room service. Specifically breakfast.

Not for one.

For two.

He read it again, hoping he had misinterpreted it. That there was some technical explanation. A clerical error. Anything.

But the line was clear.

2 adults.

Not only in Vancouver.

In Montreal too.

And this time it wasn’t a punch. It was a free fall with no protection, from the edge of a cliff. Straight down.

Chapter End Notes

Well, I have a lot to say.

1. We’ve finally reached another major moment in the story: Connor now knows he likes Hudson (FINALLY). And I don’t think the other reveal is much of a surprise to anyone — or at least not to most of you — François’ infidelity.

2. I’ve been talking to some of you on X and hahaha, please don’t hate Connor. He’s just a sad, fragile soul who needs to learn to love himself. A lot of his decisions aren’t even about him — they’re about everyone else.

3. Some of you might be hoping to read about what’s going on with Kiley and Hudson next. Yes, I’ll be writing about that in detail — but it might not be in the very next chapter.

4. Thank you so much to everyone who’s been sharing my work. You truly have no idea how happy that makes me.

5. I’m really sorry I haven’t replied to your comments yet — I promise I will. If you take the time to read my work and leave a comment, the least I can do is respond. I’ll wait until this weekend when I’m a little freer from work, and then I’ll catch up.

 

That’s all. I hope you enjoy the chapter… and that you’re not hating me too much. 💛

Chapter 15: Ice Melting Fast

Chapter Notes

Hi hi!

Sorry for disappearing for a few days — this one fought me a little. But the good news is… 16k words. So hopefully it was worth the wait.
I’ve been really swamped with work lately, but I’m updating as often as I can. What matters most to me is that this story keeps going.

As always, I left my ramblings at the end.

Thank you for being here and for reading!!

It took Connor about two minutes to decide he had to leave. He didn’t want to be there when François came back. From the way he felt in that moment—the pressure swelling in his chest, the knot tightening around his throat, the sudden heaviness behind his eyes—he knew he wouldn’t be able to face him the way he’d intended. Because he would cry. And he refused to. He wasn’t going to ask for explanations while looking pathetic and broken; why would he give François the privilege of watching him break over something he had done?

He closed the MacBook without bothering to return it to the bedroom. He grabbed a bag and shoved whatever he could inside. He left behind a pair of shoes, his toothbrush, and everything else in the bathroom. He only took his clothes.

He walked out of François’ condo without even pausing to look back. His hands were shaking and, although his eyes burned with the urgent need to give in and let the tears fall, he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to cry. He moved quickly toward the elevator and pressed the button with barely contained anxiety. The wait felt endless, a small hell suspended in the silence of the hallway. And it was much worse when the doors opened and François was standing there.

“Oh,” François said, surprised. He took a step forward to get out of the elevator, but confusion flickered across his face when he saw Connor there, bag slung over his shoulder, so he remained inside. “Where are you going?”

Connor forced himself to swallow the knot in his throat and to summon a normalcy he didn’t feel. Seeing him after what he had just discovered sparked an almost violent urge to demand explanations, to drag some excuse out of him—that he’d stayed with a friend, with a relative, with anyone who didn’t imply he had cheated— though he knew it was ridiculous. He wasn’t looking for a reason to stay; deep down, he was looking for one that hurt less.

“Ah… uh…” He forced a smile that burned across his face with how fake it felt. “Nick called. I have to go to the Lululemon thing now.”

“Aren’t you supposed to travel the day after tomorrow?”

Connor was grateful that, despite not being a good liar, his brain decided to cooperate that morning.

“Nick mixed up the date when he bought the ticket,” he said, swallowing, afraid his voice might break at any second. “It leaves in a couple of hours, so I can still make it.”

François believed him. He held out the bag with the medicine and kept the elevator door from closing.

“Here, take this. Come on, I’ll drive you.”

Shit. Connor forced himself to come up with something. He didn’t want a car ride with him pretending everything was fine; he could barely hold himself together as it was.

“No, it’s not necessary,” he replied, and the hesitation was impossible to hide. “I called an Uber. It should already be downstairs.”

François glanced at his watch, as if calculating how long he’d been at the pharmacy for Connor to pack, order a car, and have it already waiting. But he had no reason to doubt him.

“Oh, babe, you should’ve waited for me.”

“It’s not important,” Connor said as he stepped into the elevator, just as François stepped out. “We’ll talk later.” He pressed the button for the first floor.

“Hey.” François stepped back inside, and Connor nearly lost his composure. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” he answered too quickly.

François watched him for a few seconds before nodding. Then he stepped closer and cupped Connor’s face with one hand, drawing him in. Connor’s body trembled slightly at the contact; a wave of revulsion cut through him with unbearable clarity. When François leaned in to kiss him, Connor turned his face just enough that the kiss landed on his cheek.

“I have to go,” he said firmly. “We’ll talk later.”

François absorbed Connor’s response—not just the physical one, but the one woven into his words—and stepped back with a faint frown, pierced by a doubt he hadn’t fully formed yet. His eyes remained fixed on Connor’s, and Connor held the gaze without allowing himself to waver, until the elevator doors slid shut between them.

***

Connor called Nick on the way to the airport to let him know he wouldn’t be traveling with him. Nick was supposed to join him for the campaign in Winnipeg, but Connor decided to go ahead two days earlier. Nick would arrive later. There were no questions when he simply said, “I have to do this.” He could have stayed at the hotel. However, he was certain François would show up there the moment he stopped answering messages or calls. He could also switch hotels, though the proximity would be a constant invitation to go back and demand explanations.

That conversation, he knew, would have to happen sooner or later, because he wasn’t planning to disappear or to end the relationship without an explanation — among other things, because work would force them to see each other again. But he didn’t want to face it with his emotions in disarray; in that vulnerable state, he risked believing whatever bullshit François might try to sell him.

He arrived at a hotel on Ellice Avenue in the afternoon. He wouldn’t be able to check into the one Nick had booked until the next day. As soon as he stepped into the room, he dropped his bag on the floor and collapsed face down onto the bed, as if his body no longer responded to him. He pulled out his phone and then remembered it was still on airplane mode. When he turned airplane mode off, notifications began piling up on the screen. They were messages from François.

Where are you?
I’m at your hotel, can you open the door?
You’re not at the hotel?
Connor, please, let’s talk.
Let me talk to you, please.
I know you don’t want to talk right now and I should respect that, but please, I’m begging you, talk to me.

Connor smiled sadly. He didn’t open the chat. He locked the phone and buried his face in his crossed arms. From the desperation in the messages, he assumed François had somehow figured out that he already knew. He didn’t understand how— maybe he saw the MacBook on the table and, when he opened it, found the hotel email still open, the invoice already downloaded; maybe it was something else. He wasn’t sure, and honestly, he didn’t care.

He wanted to convince himself that he didn’t care who François had cheated with either, but the doubt returned again and again, tearing through his calm: had it been with a man? With a woman? Someone he knew? Only those two times? What if there were more, and he only knew about those because they were the only ones he had proof of? Connor sighed and curled into a fetal position, searching for a comfort he couldn’t find. If François weren’t so desperate, he thought, maybe—with a cool head, looking at it from a distance—he could grant him the benefit of a reasonable explanation.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he muttered aloud, speaking to himself.

Connor was also aware, while he waited two hours at the airport, then endured three more on the plane and finally the short ride to the hotel, that what was truly tearing him apart was not feeling like enough. For some time now, he had carried a silent guilt over many of the things that had happened in his relationship with François. Maybe the first year had been stable, even happy, but in the last seven months everything had grown more difficult between them. Or maybe it had always been that way and he simply hadn’t wanted to see it.

François used to make comments about his relationship with Hudson; to Connor they were nothing more than harmless jealousy, vague insinuations that never turned into direct accusations. He had never said anything specific, at least not until a few weeks ago, when he finally put into words what he had been hinting at for a long time. Even so, Connor couldn’t help feeling responsible for much of the wear and tear. Not for the cheating—no—but for the slow, steady deterioration that had eroded what he once believed was solid.

And on the other hand, in the middle of the pain lodged in his chest—pain he refused to fully release because that would mean truly feeling it, without anesthesia—he thought that, in a way, he might also have betrayed François. He had tried to kiss Hudson; he hadn’t done it, but the intention had been there. And if he looked at it objectively, Hudson always occupied a central place: he was present, available, almost a silent priority. If something happened, Connor ran to him; if he needed to vent, he turned to him; when he planned trips, Hudson was always part of the equation.

Just like now. Connor felt like absolute shit, his body reduced to dust and his emotions piling up without order or outlet, without ever truly processing them. And still, he wanted to talk to Hudson. He needed to hear his voice, to know how he was, to at least hold a conversation without that cold, distant tone he’d used the day before.

He picked up his phone almost on instinct, unlocked it, and searched for Hudson’s contact. He stared at it for several seconds—or maybe minutes; time had stopped having a clear measure—before finally pressing the call button.

The phone rang several times; it didn’t go straight to voicemail. Still, Hudson didn’t answer. Connor didn’t try a second call; neither his heart nor his body had enough strength to withstand rejection in that moment. He locked the phone and tossed it onto the mattress; it bounced and fell to the floor, but he didn’t make the slightest move to pick it up.

Hudson was still—in truth, he had never stopped being—a priority. He had argued so many times with François over the same thing that their conversations had turned into a mechanical repetition, as if they were both reciting lines from a barely altered play, each version more worn out, more hollow than the last. And yet, Connor could understand why, at some point, François might have felt displaced, even inferior, because with that friendship, Connor had crossed boundaries he himself would not have tolerated on the other side.

Could what he had with Hudson be considered a form of emotional cheating? Because cheating didn’t only involve physical contact. Building an intimate emotional bond outside the relationship could also be a betrayal.Connor shared things with Hudson that he didn’t share with François. Yes, there were different spaces for friends and for partners, but if he stopped hiding behind that distinction, he knew that many of those dynamics were not strictly platonic. He had developed an emotional dependency on someone who wasn’t his partner.

He sighed and shifted position, lying on his back, staring at the white, the bland white ceiling of the hotel room.

“Of course not,” he said with resignation. “You didn’t see him as just a friend.”

He stayed that way for several minutes, breathing in and out without it truly easing the pressure in his chest.Eventually he realized he needed to move, to do something that would shake the heaviness out of his body—anything that would interrupt the obsessive spiral of his thoughts. He changed clothes and went down to the hotel gym. Fortunately, it was empty. It had been a good day for invisibility: almost no one recognized him at the airport in Montreal, no one approached him—something he silently appreciated—and when he arrived in Winnipeg, everything was even easier.

He got on the treadmill, and thirty minutes later he was still running as if the motion could hollow out his chest, as if each stride wore down whatever had built up inside him. He had his headphones on and forced himself to listen to songs whose lyrics he repeated in his mind, clinging to them to keep other thoughts from taking over. Then he moved on to strength training and spent more than an hour pushing his body with a nearly punitive intensity. When he finally decided it was enough, he was drenched in sweat and his muscles burned in a strangely comforting way; his body welcomed the punishment.

His mind kicked back in the moment he stepped into his room.

He stayed in the shower longer than usual, under the hot water pouring over the back of his neck like a promise of anesthesia. He was convinced that once he got out, he would crawl into bed and sleep as long as he could—until the next day, if possible—so that he would only have to focus on work and postpone any emotional confrontation. When he left the bathroom, he picked up his phone without knowing exactly why. He didn’t want to see messages from François, didn’t want to scroll through social media, didn’t want to read the news, didn’t want to face anything that would pull him back into immediate reality.

But it took only a few seconds to understand that the only thing he wanted was to check whether Hudson had written to him.

And he had.

Connor’s heart jolted against his ribs, and he silently scolded himself for reacting that way. In the past few hours, he’d become more aware of what Hudson had said about their dependency, and that realization unsettled him. It even frightened him to realize that he felt calmer sensing that Hudson seemed less angry than the day before.

He opened the chat immediately. Hudson must have texted while he was in the shower: I had my virtual interview with Exclaim! today. You called right then, so I couldn’t answer.

Connor smiled when he read it. Did that mean he could call him? The sudden rush of excitement filled his chest, but it faded as quickly as it had appeared. He didn’t want to tell him what had happened. Not like this, not over the phone. When he did, he needed him close. Besides, Hudson knew him too well; he would sense that something was wrong without Connor having to say it.

As if the universe had decided to intervene, the phone vibrated in his hands: Hudson was video calling him. Connor nearly dropped it from the shock and rejected the call with an awkward movement.

He began pacing the room without direction: from the window to the bed, from the bed to the television, back to the window. Restlessness ran through him. as he tried to decide what to do. Finally, he chose to call him back—but not on video. Just a voice call. That, at least, he could handle.

“Hi,” Connor said, forcing himself to sound calm.

“Hi…” Hudson’s reply carried an inflection closer to a question, as if from the very first second it felt strange that Connor had declined the video call only to return it with a voice call. “Are you okay?”

Connor stayed silent for a few seconds. He knew this contradicted everything he had decided earlier, but he wasn’t prepared for that question and, above all, he didn’t want to lie to him.

“Uh… no,” he admitted, almost against his will. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then why were you calling me?”

Hudson didn’t sound rude, though he wasn’t entirely himself either. His voice carried a forced politeness, as if he weren’t completely at ease. It didn’t bother Connor. They hadn’t spoken since the meeting, and he knew he had things to explain—not only what had happened there, but also what had happened the day before. Instead of unsettling him, that distance felt understandable. He even felt grateful: Hudson must have sensed that something was wrong from the missed call and, even so, seemed to have set aside his annoyance to find out what was going on.

“Because I wanted to talk to you,” Connor said almost in a whisper. “I miss you.”

The silence stretched for several seconds on the other end of the line. Connor exhaled slowly when Hudson didn’t respond.

“I know you’re with Kiley right now and I shouldn’t have called…”

“Yes,” Hudson cut in. “I’m with Kiley.”

Connor didn’t know how to interpret that. Did it mean he was physically with her at that moment, or was it a deliberate reminder, crystal clear, that he was still in a relationship? The second option seemed more likely. Hudson had to be upset about what had happened—about that attempted kiss. At the time, Connor had half-justified himself by thinking Hudson hadn’t pulled away, but now he understood that maybe it hadn’t been reciprocity. Maybe it had been shock.

“I’m sorry for bothering you,” he said, resignation creeping into his voice. “Have fun.”

He ended the call before giving Hudson room to respond, and the second he did, he felt stupid. From Hudson’s perspective, that must have sounded like jealousy. But wasn’t it? The realization of his feelings for him was still lodged in his chest, raw and undeniable, even if he refused to say them out loud. They betrayed him with a clarity he couldn’t hide.

He sat down on the bed, elbows on his knees, and buried his head in his hands. He tugged at his hair in frustration and rocked slightly back and forth. That was what he meant by contradiction: feeling jealous over Hudson just after discovering his boyfriend had cheated on him. Didn’t that make him a traitor too?

Minutes later, the phone rang again. Connor startled—this was why he usually kept his phone on vibrate. He grabbed it, and his heart lurched.

Hudson. Again.

Connor didn’t even get the chance to speak. The moment he answered, Hudson started talking without pause.

“You didn’t show up at the damn hotel that day,” he fired off immediately. “I waited for you all fucking day and you didn’t come, you didn’t text, you didn’t call. Nothing.” He took a breath. “I was fucking worried about you, but you didn’t give a shit, Connor. And then you texted me in the middle of the night asking if we can talk? Did what I thought matter that little? What I felt in that moment?”

“What are you talking about?” Connor managed, genuinely confused. Hudson was speaking fast, voice raised without quite shouting, but heavy with anger. He didn’t know if he meant the meeting or the almost-kiss.

“What do you think I’m talking about?” Hudson shot back, exasperated. “That damn meeting. The bullshit you agreed to just to cover your boyfriend’s fucking ass.”

If Connor had heard Hudson talk like this at any other time, he might have laughed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him this worked up and swearing this much. Hudson cursed casually all the time when he was comfortable, but when he was truly angry, he tended to become oddly formal. But right now Connor only cared that he was this angry—and that he was the cause. Hudson was speaking so fast it was as if each word burned his tongue.

“Huddy…” Connor tried to interrupt, beginning to feel dizzy from the barrage. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, massaging away the crease forming there.

“You’re not a fucking child, and you’re definitely not some fucking superhero who has to go around sacrificing himself because Mr. ‘my life is slipping away, I’m a washed-up old man’ thinks it suits him.” Hudson let out a sharp, frustrated sound. “And you? What about you? What about what you feel? Do you love him so much that you’re willing to swallow all of it while watch him put on some ridiculous act with another man just for recognition?”

“Huddy…” Connor insisted.

“Fuck this,” Hudson snapped. “I know you don’t like me talking about your relationship, and fuck the damn boundaries, don’t you think this is enough? That fucking idiot doesn’t love you. He can’t— not if he’s willing to let the person he’s supposed to love go through all this shit for him.”

“Huddy!” Connor raised his voice and startled at the sound of his own voice echoing in the room. He had shouted. Again. “No… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you, I just…”

A long silence followed, and Connor had to check the screen to make sure Hudson hadn’t hung up. His heart leapt into his throat. He had promised Hudson he would never yell at him again. But this wasn’t the same. Relief rushed through him, when he heard Hudson’s voice.

“It’s okay,” Hudson said softly, as if he understood that the shout had been a desperate attempt to pull him back to calm. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Connor let out a heavy breath. “You…”

“What?”

“You were disappointed in me.”

There was a pause. It wasn’t uncomfortable; it felt more like an unspoken acknowledgment as if that single sentence explained how they had gotten here.

“You can’t tell me that’s not true,” Connor continued quietly. “I know you. Your look told me everything you didn’t dare to say out loud that day.”

“I’m sorry,” Hudson replied, calmer now. “I realized too late that I did.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Connor replied. “If that’s how you felt, I understand. I’m the one who’s sorry. I’d rather you be honest with me.”

“I was,” Hudson said. “I know dealing with all that shit is hard on you, but…” He sighed. “This whole thing is fucking bullshit. And I have a lot more to say about it, but I’ll stop now.”

“I didn’t ignore you on purpose,” Connor said at last. “I thought you were so disappointed you wouldn’t want to talk to me. Then…” He trailed off when the thought of François tightened painfully in his chest. “Then I had a conversation with him.” He didn’t say his name, but he knew Hudson would understand. “It got late and when I checked my phone… well, that’s when I texted you.”

Hudson hesitated. “Uh…”

Then Connor remembered the raised voice from a minute ago, the anger thinly veiledlay, and a flicker of unease ran through him.

“You’re not with…?” He hesitated. “Kiley’s not there, is she?”

“No,” Hudson said firmly. “I bolted out of the apartment so I could call you.”

Relief washed over Connor. He didn’t want to put Hudson in an uncomfortable position; he didn’t want Kiley to see him upset over something related to him and make things even more strained between them. It also calmed him to know Hudson had decided to call right away, that he hadn’t let it go. Because Connor knew he wouldn’t have slept all night otherwise, would’ve sat there hammering himself with guilt.

“You hung up the fucking phone on me,” Hudson complained.

“You did it first,” Connor shot back.

“I was angry,” Hudson tried to justify.

“I know,” Connor said, and he wasn’t surprised to feel a faint smile spread across his face.

“Where are you?” Hudson asked.

“In Winnipeg.”

“Weren’t you supposed to travel the day after tomorrow?”

And there it was again, pulling him right back into the circle he thought he had escaped. The shift in topic dragged him straight to François’ betrayal. A dry emptiness spread through his chest; his throat tightened instantly, the knot returning with force, his eyes burning with everything he’d been holding in for hours. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. He would not cry. He simply wouldn’t.

“Yeah, but…” He wasn’t going to lie to Hudson. Not him. “I had to come earlier. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when we see each other.”

“Are you okay?”

That question reminded him why, once again, why he couldn’t help feeling different with him. Anyone else would have demanded an explanation, would have said, you can’t just leave it at that or if you brought it up, finish it.Hudson, instead, prioritized whether he was okay and respected his choice not to talk about it in that moment, even though he was surely worried—maybe even anxious.

“No,” he repeated, and he hated how fragile his voice sounded.

“Don’t you want to do a video call?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Hudson’s tone softened into almost a murmur. “Did I leave you to deal with something really hard on your own?”

“No,” Connor said quickly. “You’re here.”

They both stayed silent for several seconds. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, just a different kind of communication, a shared presence through the line. Connor felt that silence as something warm, almost tangible. The weight in his chest eased a little—just enough to let him breathe without so much pressure. He wasn’t alone. Hudson had always been there, and he still was.

“I miss you too,” Hudson said finally. “We’ll see each other soon, and we’ll talk when you’re ready.”

***

When Connor stepped onto the set for the first time, he felt as though he were standing inside a meticulously constructed box of light. The white cyclorama curved seamlessly, without visible edges, creating an artificial, endless horizon. Overhead, a metal grid held octagonal softboxes, LED strips, and a beauty dish. The floor, crossed with fluorescent lines of gaffer tape, marked precise positions for blocking, while silver reflectors and translucent diffusers rested off to one side. In front of the backdrop, a camera mounted on a tripod was tethered to a monitor that mirrored the framing in real time. Clothing racks displayed garments arranged by color, and the makeup table—ringed with round bulbs—was covered in foundations, powders, shadows, and highlighters.

Nick took Connor’s bag and the water bottle from his hand so he could greet Léa Gagnon properly, the producer of the Lululemon campaign. Connor extended his hand, but she responded with a brief, professional hug instead. He held his smile as Léa placed a hand on his back and guided him toward a corner of the set to explain how the day would unfold.

They needed to optimize every minute. Connor would be back in Toronto the following afternoon, so there was no room for distractions. They had to focus exclusively on the job. On the other side of the studio, Nick remained alert, watching quietly and ready to step in if Connor needed anything.

“Today we’re working the Move Freely line,” Léa said with a sweet smile. “For that, we need a lot of natural energy—nothing stiff. We want to see you authentic, just being yourself.”

“I’m sure I can do that,” Connor replied, flashing a broad smile as natural as Léa’s.

Lately, being himself had been especially difficult, so stepping into a space where the only thing that mattered was delivering the work offered him a temporary calm—even if he knew the day would be exhausting. That morning he had woken with his chest a little lighter; talking to Hudson the night before had allowed him to unload part of the weight, even without fully explaining what was going on. With François, it had been different: he’d had to turn off his phone because the messages wouldn’t stop and the persistent calls gave him no breathing room. That insistence wouldn’t allow him to create distance or sort through what he was feeling, so he chose to disconnect for a few hours, as if silence could contain the chaos.

At the studio, Léa left him in the hands of Camille Roy, the stylist. She led him to a makeshift dressing area behind a white screen that barely muffled the technical murmur of the set. On the table waited the selected outfits: high-waisted black technical leggings, clay-colored joggers, a breathable white tank top, and a lightweight petroleum-blue jacket. Everything was folded with precision, labeled according to the order of appearance.

Connor studied himself in the mirror as a light matte foundation was applied. He smiled with discreet embarrassment when Camille requested special care to conceal the purplish lines beneath his eyes. He had always been demanding with his work; he hated being a burden and made sure everything turned out as well as possible, especially when the result depended solely on him. If the only thing he could do at that moment was perform, then he would do it well. He pushed aside the thoughts that kept pressing at the back of his mind and surrendered fully to the session.

“First look,” the assistant announced after a long round of makeup.

The photographer, a silver-haired woman with a calm voice, raised her camera—a Canon R5 with a 70–200mm f/2.8 lens. Connor had always been fascinated by cameras; as someone obsessively drawn to film and art, he couldn’t help but lose himself for a second in the elegant beauty of the equipment.

“Connor, let’s keep it simple. Barefoot. Relaxed posture. Weight on your right leg. Chin slightly down. Look at me over your shoulder.”

The session wrapped close to five in the afternoon. Nine straight hours of work, broken only by short pauses for lunch, water, and a quick snack. Connor was heading back to the hotel in an Uber with Nick, sprawled across the back seat, his legs spread wider than was comfortable—yet somehow the only position he could tolerate. His back hurt, his neck hurt, and for some reason, so did his lower back. He was exhausted.

“If tomorrow’s flight isn’t delayed, we’ll be in Toronto before nine,” Nick said while checking in from his phone.

“I want to sleep,” Connor muttered. “I didn’t have a good night.”

“It shows,” Nick replied, barely lifting his gaze. “Though I thought maybe you’d want to go out for dinner or drinks to celebrate finishing the campaign on time.”

Connor looked at him in disbelief, and Nick let out an inevitable laugh.

“Are you that tired?”

“I’m wiped, but… can we grab some sushi?”

“Sushi it is,” Nick agreed without looking up from the screen. “All set.” He was talking about the flight check-in.

Connor nodded and watched him for a moment. He wanted a break from work, but he also needed to talk to someone who was inside the machinery, someone who understood the real implications. He hadn’t had the chance to properly sit down with Nick or Brad, so he decided to take advantage of the ride.

“Do you think there’s any chance I can get out of that clause?” he asked.

Nick looked at him, surprised.

“I mean, I know I said I’d do it, but I haven’t signed anything. I haven’t even read it. I wouldn’t have to pay anything, right?”

“No,” Nick replied after a second. “At least not financially.”

Connor sighed. He had known that would be the answer. Backing out now wouldn’t just complicate things because of whatever retaliation CAA might take against him—or against Hudson if he decided to leave too. It would also contradict the very reason he’d agreed in the first place. He hadn’t done it for François; he’d done it for Hudson. And yet, in that moment, it felt physically impossible to carry it through. He didn’t want to see François. He didn’t want to be near him—much less play host to his fake relationship.

Wouldn’t that mean pulling back the protection he’d tried to offer Hudson? Yes. He knew that. He also knew that once they talked, things could either flow or fall apart even further. At least they would face it together, try to come out of it relatively unscathed.

Connor trusted Brad blindly. He trusted Nick—and even Elena.

“I know you said it would be hard to find another agency, but…” he began.

“We can do it,” Nick cut in. “It’ll be complicated, yes. But we can do it if that’s what you decide.”

Connor nodded. He would wait to talk to Hudson before making any final decision. He didn’t want to leave CAA solely because of the “inseparable duo” clause—or the sponsorship clause tied to other talent or a potential new series—but because of everything that had accumulated around it. The company’s ethics clashed with who he was, with who Hudson was, too. He didn’t trust his future in the hands of a structure that manipulated them so effortlessly. He knew many of those strategies were legally sound, but that didn’t make them any less questionable—nor did it mean they couldn’t challenge them on legal grounds of their own.

But Connor also thought about what all of this meant for the second season of Heated Rivalry. Inevitably, they’d be under intense scrutiny; media interest would be relentless, especially given how anticipated the new installment already was. Maybe CRAVE would choose to distance itself and make drastic decisions. Or maybe it would back them publicly. Everything felt uncertain, volatile. He didn’t want to disappoint Jacob either, who was giving everything to the season, even mentally preparing for a third. Unlike the agency, Jacob genuinely cared about the project succeeding—about it surviving the external noise and the tensions threatening to overwhelm it.

Both Natalie and Steven spoke about the series as if it were crucial to them, but Connor understood it wasn’t. It only mattered as long as they were profitable. If it failed, the company would simply redirect its focus to another venture. CAA was invested in something broader, more lucrative. They were useful pieces within a system that didn’t truly depend on the success of a single project.

The thought of how far they might go unsettled him. The Hermès and Calvin Klein campaigns were nothing compared to what he now knew they were willing to orchestrate. Even so, Connor wanted to believe that if his team and Hudson’s joined forces, they could retain some control—protect themselves enough to avoid being swallowed whole.

When they arrived at the hotel, he almost told Nick to forget it—that he’d rather not go out for sushi after all. But the idea of staying alone in his room with his thoughts unsettled him. He didn’t want the ones he’d managed to keep at bay all day to return full force.

He hadn’t checked his phone once since leaving that morning. He didn’t want to see messages from François or keep declining his calls. As a way of keeping things under control, he decided not to look at his phone for the rest of the day. He knew it wasn’t the healthiest way to handle things, but it had only been one day. One day in which he hadn’t even allowed himself to fully process it. He didn’t want to start now.

Nick’s room was one floor below Connor’s, so when the elevator doors opened on Nick’s floor, Connor said:

“See you in two hours? I want to shower and rest for a bit before we go out.”

Nick turned with a smile he rarely offered him. He was always serious when he spoke, excessively professional, and rarely let any gesture of camaraderie show toward Connor; that expression felt strange, almost out of place.

“Text me if you actually feel like going out,” he said before heading down the hallway. Without turning around, he lifted a hand in farewell.

Connor frowned, puzzled. He turned instinctively, as if someone had tugged at him, but he didn’t dwell on it.

When he reached his room, he slid the keycard into the black panel beside the door. The click of the lock disengaging echoed in the quiet hallway. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

His heart lurched. For a second, he stopped breathing; then his pulse spiked and he had to force himself to inhale as the door closed behind him.

“Uh…” he managed to utter.

“I’m not sure how to interpret that reaction,” Hudson said as he stood up from the couch by the window. “Should I stay, or get my ass out of here right now?” A shadow of a smile crossed his face. “You took forever, baby.”

“Huddy…” was all he could say.

Connor crossed the room like he was three steps from the finish line in a life-or-death race. Hudson was already standing by the window and opened his arms without hesitation. The air left Connor’s lungs in a choked breath when he threw himself into Hudson’s arms. and wrapped him in an almost desperate embrace. He looped his arms around Hudson’s neck and shoulders, burying his face in Hudson’s shoulder while Hudson held him firmly at the waist.

“God… how… when…” Connor stammered, forehead still pressed against him, unable to string the words together.

“Nick’s pretty efficient.”

Connor didn’t need to look at him to know he was smiling. He wouldn’t have been able to explain how good that hug felt. Hudson was warm and solid against him, and Connor had to fight the urge to turn his head and bury his nose in his neck just to breathe him in, just to make sure he was really there.

He only pulled back when his heart started pounding too hard. It was the first time he’d seen him since he’d forced himself, days earlier, to name what he felt. And yet, in that moment, there was no guilt. He didn’t think about the unresolved breakup hanging over him or the contradictions that had tormented him hours before. He only felt an unexpected fullness at having Hudson there with him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, knowing he probably looked like an overly excited, happy puppy.

“Should I leave?” Hudson pointed toward the door with his index finger and made a show of stepping toward it.

This time the gesture was less abrupt and pulled him into another hug. Hudson responded by stroking his back slowly, up and down, as if trying to steady his breathing.

“Thank you,” Connor whispered.

“I didn’t come so you could talk,” Hudson said, tilting his head just enough to press a brief kiss to his hair. “I came so you wouldn’t be alone. So you don’t have to go through this by yourself.”

Connor tightened his arms around him, as if afraid it might disappear if he loosened his grip.

After a few seconds, Hudson gently pulled away, cupped Connor’s face in his hands, gently moving it from side to side, studying him carefully.

“You look tired,” he murmured before giving each of his cheeks a light pinch.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Connor replied with a sigh.

“It shows.”

Connor studied his expression and wondered whether it would be better to get straight to the point, to tell him at once what had happened the day before.

“What time did you get here?”

“Around noon.” He clicked his tongue with a resigned gesture. “I thought your session would end earlier. Now there’s less than a day before we go back to Toronto.”

“How did you get in?” Connor asked with a faint, with a faintly amused look, remembering he had the key.

“Nick did me a favor and paid for another one. Told them yours had been lost.” Hudson admitted, slightly embarrassed.

Connor smiled at the effort.

“We were going to see each other tomorrow,” he said with a small pout, touched.

“Yeah, well… I couldn’t let my best friend sit alone in a hotel room feeling like shit.” Hudson lifted his hand and brushed his thumb lightly along Connor’s cheek before letting it fall.

The gesture left a warmth Connor didn’t quite know what to do with.

“We need to talk,” he said finally.

“But only if you feel ready,” Hudson said.

Connor hesitated. He had a feeling they might not be thinking about the same thing. For Hudson, that “we need to talk” might only refer to CAA and the contractual mess surrounding them. For Connor, it meant more: the explanation he owed him for the attempted kiss, and the inevitable confession about what had happened with François. He didn’t know where to begin, but he knew he couldn’t keep postponing it anymore.

***

They arrived at an Asian restaurant around eight that night, after circling several blocks with Google Maps in search of a place with good sushi— because, of course, Connor wanted sushi. It was just the two of them; Nick had said he would stay at the hotel to get ahead on some work.

Both Hudson and Connor had tried to dress in a way that would help them blend in, or at least reduce the chances of being recognized. They were both wearing caps, and Connor wasn’t sure whether that helped or just made them look more suspicious. On the way, they ran into a group of girls who asked for a photo. Connor agreed kindly and, in the same soft tone, asked if they could post it in two days, once they were no longer in the city. In truth, he would have preferred they didn’t post it at all, but he knew that would be unfair—and probably hard to understand. He wanted to avoid, as much as possible, anything that might spark unnecessary talk about him.

They took a table at the back of the restaurant and silently appreciated that it was crowded enough for them to dissolve into the background. Once seated, they removed their caps. Hudson ran his fingers through his hair, trying to fix it, though his straight strands always ended up falling out of place.

“Your damn perfect curls,” he muttered jokingly.

Connor smiled and, without thinking too much about it, reached out to gently smooth down the rebellious strands Hudson hadn’t managed to tame.

They ordered as soon as the waitress approached and added two glasses of wine before dinner.

“Nick says it’s possible,” Connor resumed the conversation they had started at the hotel and continued in the Uber. “But it’ll be complicated.”

“Yeah, Elena told me the same,” Hudson replied. He’d already mentioned he’d spoken to her the day he stormed out of the meeting with CAA’s representatives.

“And you’re really not worried about it?” Connor asked, frowning with genuine concern.

“Of course I’m worried.” Hudson rested his elbows on the table. “But there’s nothing else I can do. I’m not doing it. I’m not putting myself through that. And if there are consequences…” He rolled his eyes in resigned acceptance. “I know there will be. I trust Elena and the legal team to find a way to keep me from getting screwed. And like I told you before, if Nick and Brad work with her on this, I think it can work for both of us.”

“I’ll do it,” Connor said firmly. “I didn’t want everything falling on you.”

“It was stupid of you to think that,” Hudson replied, not unkindly. “But I have to admit, I’m relieved to know you don’t want to do it anymore.”

Connor leaned back in his chair as the waitress set their wine glasses down. He looked at Hudson, who hadn’t taken his eyes off him, and raised his brows slightly—an invitation to speak. He knew there was more.

“Why did you change your mind?” Hudson asked. “I don’t know if it has anything to do with whatever it is you don’t want to talk about, but…”

“It’s okay.” Connor held his gaze. “It’s something I need to talk to you about anyway. I’d just rather talk about it back at the hotel. I don’t want to get into it here.”

“Why? Are you going to cry?” Hudson teased.

The smile that followed the question faded instantly when he saw Connor’s expression. No words were necessary to confirm it.

“Oh…” he murmured.

The silence that followed was brief, but not uncomfortable. Hudson broke it first.

“Did you fight with him again?”

There was a note of resignation in his tone that Connor recognized immediately; Hudson had probably lost count of how many times he’d asked that question in the past seven months.

“Later,” Connor said.

Hudson nodded, respecting the boundary.

“You should talk to your agents and tell them working together might be the best move. I think they make a good team—I mean Elena, Nick, and Brad. Together. The are ‘unstoppables.’”

“Don’t you think it kind of looks like the three of them work for the two of us?” Connor asked with a faint smile.

Hudson laughed.

“Elena said starting next month she’s sending you an invoice too. Told me to have you ask your accountant now how that’s going to affect your income and expenses.”

“I don’t mind if we end up with the same agents,” Connor clarified. “If it’s still them, I mean. I don’t think we could find better people for this.”

“I agree.” Hudson paused, as if debating whether to keep going. “But I’ve been thinking maybe the best thing is for us to be with different companies.”

Connor’s eyes widened—not dramatically, but enough to show he hadn’t expected that. He had just lifted his wine glass to his lips, but he set it back down before taking a sip.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the only way to make sure something like this doesn’t happen again.” He shrugged. “Even Robbie and François signed with the same agency to make things easier, but I think making sure our careers are handled separately, as individual artists, is the safest move right now.”

“I get it.”

He hadn’t looked at it from that angle, but as he processed it, he had to admit Hudson was right.

“It would also make it a lot easier if, when CAA tries to move another piece, they’re getting responses from two different angles,” Connor added.

“Yeah, but it won’t be simple,” Hudson warned. “Getting out of there is going to be messy.”

Connor sighed. He knew starting a legal conflict with the agency in the middle of filming season two could have consequences beyond the immediate. It wouldn’t just affect production or public perception ahead of the release—it could hit them directly. Brand deals—ambassadorships, campaigns—depended heavily on an actor’s reputation, and a legal dispute with his own representation could easily become a liability in future negotiations.

The thought tightened something in him, but it didn’t make him back down.

“We’ll start by reviewing the best options,” he concluded, holding Hudson’s gaze as though he needed something more solid than words to steady that resolve.

They returned to the hotel around eleven-thirty. They had ended up ordering double portions of sushi each and then three more glasses of wine—a combination they both admitted was a strange but necessary combination. Hudson had booked a room two floors up, though in the end they both wound up in Connor’s.

Connor sat on the bed, his back against the headboard. Hudson dragged the small sofa closer to the foot of the bedand settled there, propping his legs up.

“It’s just one more week in Toronto and then we have to head to Ottawa,” Hudson said while checking his phone. “My ass is flat from spending more time on planes than anywhere else.”

“Maybe we should start flying economy,” Connor joked.

“Yeah, well, that won’t be the case tomorrow,” Hudson grinned. “And technically the next trips are covered by CRAVE, so we might as well enjoy it while we save up to tell CAA to fuck off.”

Connor let out a short laugh.

“Jacob was flying tonight, right?”

“I don’t know.” Hudson didn’t look up, thumb sliding across the screen. Suddenly he frowned and lowered his feet from the edge of the bed. “Where’s your phone?”

“Why?”

Hudson looked up, confused.

“Your boyfriend is texting me.”

Connor shot to his feet, crossed the room in two strides, and took Hudson’s phone from his hand. He didn’t open the chat; he read the messages from the lock screen. They kept coming in.

I’m sorry for texting you this late.

Do you know which hotel Connor is staying at?

Or do you have the contact info for one of his agents?

Have you spoken to him?

I’m sorry, but could you help me?

Connor pressed his lips together as a surge of anger moved through his chest. Weeks ago, François had cheated on him in Vancouver. A couple of weeks later, in Montreal. And now he wanted to talk? Connor knew, deep down, that François needed to talk. If he hadn’t done it before, it was because Connor hadn’t known anything—and he had chosen to stretch the lie as long as possible, until the guilt became too heavy… or until he got caught.

He was still holding the phone when a new message appeared—this time from Sophie.

Hey, have you talked to Connor?

Connor felt everything begin to tilt—not physically, but in that internal way when balance fractures along with your thoughts. If Sophie was texting Hudson, it meant François had dragged her into it too. He could understand, to a point, the desperation: he needed to make sure Connor would listen to whatever he had to say, as if there were any explanation that could justify something like this.

“What’s going on?” Hudson’s voice pulled him back.

Connor locked the phone and handed it back.

“Don’t answer him,” he said, walking back to the bed. “Or if you do, just tell him we haven’t talked or whatever.”

He sat down and began rubbing his hands together, his thumb dragging over the back of the other until the skin reddened.

“And your phone?” Hudson pressed.

Connor patted the pocket of his pants without looking up. Then he laced his fingers together again. The nerves hit him all at once; he knew he couldn’t keep postponing this conversation, and the certainty lodged in his throat.

“Did you fight, yes or no?”

Hudson asked with deliberate stubbornness. The answer was obvious, but he needed Connor to say it out loud so he could frame whatever was happening.

“I don’t think it’s a fight,” Connor said finally, lifting his gaze with a sad smile. “I guess… no, it’s not ‘I guess.’ It’s over between him and me this time.”

He saw Hudson’s expression shift, as if he hadn’t expected such a direct confession. Fights were normal in their relationship. But he hadn’t seen this coming.

“What?” Hudson was still holding the phone, but all his attention was on Connor. “Why?”

Connor shrugged, trying to downplay it, though the tremor in his lips betrayed him.

“François…” The name broke in his mouth, as if saying it tightened his throat. He swallowed and took a deep breath. “Let’s just say he picked up a new hobby—testing the comfort of hotel mattresses.”

The laugh that escaped him was dry, unable to hide the pain.

“You mean you fought and he left, like the other times?” Hudson asked.

Connor knew he had understood from the start, but maybe, like him, he was resisting the possibility.

“Let’s say the hobby involves other people. Not me.”

“No…” Hudson murmured, barely audible.

Connor didn’t remember seeing him stand, but when he looked again Hudson was already on his feet, the phone clenched tightly in his hand.

“Maybe he stayed with a relative?” Connor tried, a joke that cracked in his own voice before it could land.

Hudson’s expression made it clear this wasn’t the moment for irony.

“With who?” he asked through clenched teeth.

Connor shrugged again, shook his head, and pulled his lips downward.

“Does it matter?” Another sad smile flickered. “I don’t know how many times. I found out about at least two. And I don’t even know if it was the same person.”

Hudson seemed to lose his balance for a second before sinking back onto the sofa.

“That fucking son of a bitch,” he muttered, more to himself than to Connor. “When…?” he started to ask, then stopped. “No. Forget that.” He stood again and moved to stand in front of him. “What I really want to know is—”

“Do you remember that time we fought about the bracelet and he disappeared for a week?” Hudson nodded slowly, processing. “That was the first time, and I’ve tried not to think too much about it, but…” Connor swallowed, trying to loosen the knot in his throat. “The second time was after the argument in apartment 1205, back in Toronto.” He let out a broken exhale. —Jesus, Huddy… I think when I was calling him to have him explain the CAA contract to me, he didn’t answer because he was waking up in a hotel with that person. I…”

The tears he had been holding back since the day before finally spilled over. The words dissolved before they could come out whole.

“He… he…”

He couldn’t continue. He lowered his head, and his shoulders began to shake under the weight of an emotion that seemed to rise from deep in his gut, as if he were expelling something vital. He spread his knees, rested his forearms on them, and buried his face. The sobs were silent, but the tremor ran through his entire body.

“I’m such an idiot… so fucking naive. I never doubted him. Not once. I never thought he could do something like this to me. I never thought I wouldn’t be enough… and I can’t stop thinking that I pushed him to it, that it’s my fault that—”

“Hey.” Hudson’s voice cracked with urgency.

He closed the remaining distance between them, gently pushed Connor’s knees a little farther open, and sat down between them, forcing him to lift his head slightly. Connor let one leg fall off the side of the bed as the mattress dipped under Hudson’s weight. Hudson settled in front of him and pulled him against his chest in a firm embrace. Connor’s body yielded without resistance; he wrapped his arms around Hudson’s waist while Hudson buried his face against Connor’s shoulder, one steady hand spread across his back and the other gripping the nape of his neck, as if holding him together was the only thing that mattered.

“This is not your fault,” Hudson said firmly. “The only person responsible is the one who chose to cheat. No one else.”

“I’m not innocent,” Connor murmured, his face pressed into Hudson’s shoulder. “I did a lot of things wrong, I…”

“Yes,” Hudson conceded softly, “because we’re human and we make mistakes. But you didn’t cheat.”

Connor wanted to say that maybe he had, that maybe he’d done it first without realizing it. That he had been silently betraying for a long time—emotionally—every time he ran to Hudson, every time he waited for a message with an anxiety that wasn’t entirely innocent, every time he had fallen asleep wrapped around him, breathing him in and wanting something he shouldn’t. He wasn’t innocent. But saying it out loud would mean opening another crack, one he couldn’t survive right now. He didn’t want to scare Hudson. He didn’t want to risk the fragile calm his presence gave him, fearing that if Hudson pulled away, everything would collapse. He couldn’t be that selfish.

“He slept with me after that,” Connor confessed, ignoring the slight stiffening in Hudson’s body. “At least the first time. And I…” The tears surged again. “If I think about that…”

“Don’t.” Hudson took him by the shoulders and pulled him back just enough to look at him. He wiped the tears from his cheeks, then the ones gathering on his lashes. “Don’t think about that. He doesn’t deserve you like this. He doesn’t deserve your tears.” He offered him a soft smile, tinged with sadness. “You practically sold your soul trying to keep that relationship alive. And I know I’m crossing a line again, but… don’t you feel like it’s been draining you for months? I know that doesn’t change what happened, it doesn’t make it hurt less, but maybe you needed a trigger to finally walk away. You were hurting each other, and neither of you had the courage to end it”

“Because I don’t remember François ever doing anything truly wrong before this,” Connor said with weary resignation. “It was always me.”

“Because he made you believe it was you,” Hudson replied, bitterness barely restrained. “Jesus, Connie, he repeated it every chance he got.”

“Because it was—”

“No.” Hudson cut him off firmly. “It wasn’t. He’s a fucking self-centered manipulator. He doesn’t get to sleep with someone else and then come back and make you feel like shit when he’s the only one who cheated in that relationship.”

The impact of those words must have shown on Connor’s face, because Hudson softened immediately.

“Maybe you’re not perfect,” he said, brushing his thumb along Connor’s cheek. “But the only one who got into bed with someone else was him. Not you.” He sighed. “And I know I’m crossing another line here, but I’ll be mad as hell if you forgive something like that. I’m not trying to control you. I just want you, for once, to think about yourself. Not to try to please anyone else, not to make a decision based on what other people expect. That’s not selfish. You have to understand that. But it would kill me to watch you let him keep that kind of power over you.”

Connor looked at him, and even with tears sliding down his face, he couldn’t help but smile. The warmth filling his chest wasn’t just shared sadness—it was the certainty of being defended without hesitation. Hudson was visibly furious, and Connor was grateful they were far from François; he had the distinct impression that if Hudson were standing in front of him right now, he would drop any diplomacy and bare his teeth without a second thought.

“Thank you for being here,” Connor whispered.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t before,” Hudson replied with a faint smile. “I’m sorry I got so angry at you when you were actually trying to do what you thought was best for everyone.”

“I was an idiot,” Connor countered softly. “And you had every right to be mad.”

Hudson gave a small shake of his head and wiped away another tear that slipped down without permission..

“How much have you been crying?” he asked, a sadness in his voice that seemed to mirror Connor’s pain.

“This is the first time…” His voice broke. He tilted his head back and rested it against the wall, exhaling heavily. “There’s so much stuck in here.” He thumped his chest twice with his fist. “I don’t know how to get it all out, Huddy.”

Hudson didn’t answer right away. He just looked at him, as if searching for a way to ease something that had no immediate fix. He took Connor’s hand—still clenched into a tight fist—and stroked it patiently until the fingers stopped resisting. Then he laced their fingers together, holding on without urgency.

“You don’t have to let it all out at once,” he murmured. “You don’t have to be strong right now. Just… cry. If you need to, cry. I’m here.”

***

The next morning, Connor woke as if he had slept for twenty straight hours. He felt unusually light, his energy restored, as though someone had completely rebooted him from the inside out. Hudson had booked another room, but he had stayed the night with him. Connor didn’t remember when the crying had turned into sleep; he only knew he had spent a long time resting against Hudson’s lap, letting the tears fall until there was nothing left to empty. He vaguely remembered Hudson’s hand moving through his hair with a steady, hypnotic rhythm.

He woke on his side, warmth against his back and the familiar weight of Hudson’s body behind him. Hudson’s face was nestled between his shoulder blades, his breathing calm against Connor’s skin. Connor stayed still for a few seconds, taking in the scene with a mix of gratitude and vertigo.

He slipped out of bed carefully so he wouldn’t wake him, though Hudson shifted slightly in the tangled sheets. Connor walked to the bathroom and stopped in front of the mirror. He studied himself for a moment, as if searching his reflection for the version of himself that had survived the night before. Now that he had finally said out loud what François had done—that someone had heard him and hadn’t blamed him—a strange calm softened his features. He even managed a small smile.

He knew he had to talk to François. He needed to close that chapter with dignity, to give an ending to a relationship that, despite everything, had meant so much. He couldn’t forgive him. Not for something like that. For a fleeting second he thought that if it had been just once, maybe—just maybe—he might have considered trying. Not because it would hurt less, but because of the guilt that still pooled in his chest, because of his own mistakes, because of the things he felt he had done wrong. But that idea dissolved the moment he examined it honestly: he would never have been able to trust him again. And it hadn’t been once. It had been at least twice. After the first time, François had even been able to sleep with him as if nothing had happened.

Disgust twisted in his stomach at a memory he would rather not have.

It would’ve been different if he’d confessed. If there had been remorse before the evidence, before being caught. But the desperate urgency to talk now didn’t stir compassion in Connor. It was only happening because he had been exposed. Because there was nowhere left to hide the lie.

Connor had connected the dots with surprising speed. François turning him down in bed. That conversation where he said they first had to resolve the contract issue, and only then talk about them. That after that conversation, if Connor decided to stay, everything would be different. A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. François had taken him for granted. Completely.

By the time Connor stepped out of the bathroom, already showered, Hudson was sitting on the edge of the bed rubbing his eyes.

“Good morning,” Connor said.

“Morning,” Hudson replied, stifling a yawn. “All my stuff’s upstairs,” he added, meaning his things were still in his own room. “Now I have to ride the elevator looking like this.”

“I’ll get dressed and go grab your stuff,” Connor offered lightly.

Hudson nodded as he headed toward the bathroom.

“The key is…” he made a vague gesture with his hand, pointing around the room. “Somewhere. I don’t know.”

Connor smiled. He quickly got dressed and went to fetch Hudson’s things. On his way back, when he heard the shower running, a thought crossed his mind and made him feel uneasy.

Hudson had come there the day before for him, even though his flight was supposed to go from Vancouver to Toronto. Or at least that’s what Connor wanted to believe. Because in reality, Hudson had traveled there to be with Kiley… and now Connor had taken one of those days from her.

He had been so consumed by his own drama that he hadn’t once asked whether being there would cause problems with Kiley.

A wave tightened in his chest, and Connor knew there was no point trying to shake it off. He didn’t like thinking about Hudson and Kiley’s relationship anymore. Not now. And he hated that, because he liked Kiley. But he couldn’t stop himself from feeling jealous.

Hudson stepped out of the bathroom with Connor’s towel tied around his waist—the same one Connor used for his hair. The fabric barely covered his hips and half his thighs, revealing enough skin that Connor had to swallow hard. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen him like that; he’d seen him with less on, in even more intimate and careless situations during filming. But ever since he had admitted to himself—without any room for denial—that he was deeply attracted to him, his heart refused to give him a break.

Connor handed him the bag and set the suitcase off to the side of the room, trying to focus on anything other than the line of his shoulders or the water still sliding down his neck. Hudson took the bag without a word, still wearing that half-asleep expression of someone who hadn’t fully woken up yet, and pulled out his skincare pouch with complete normalcy. Connor couldn’t help but smile at the sight: Hudson was so meticulous about his routine that even half-awake and fresh out of the shower, he prioritized his skincare before brushing his teeth.

They decided to go to CF Polo Park that morning because they both wanted to buy some clothes. Nick scolded them the second they mentioned the plan. He insisted there was no room left in their suitcases and that they were being wildly impractical, but he ended up coming along anyway. The outing turned out far more chaotic than they had expected. Unlike other times, they didn’t go unnoticed. Several people recognized them and approached for photos, stopping them for long stretches in different parts of the mall. Each pause stretched the day longer and wore thinner on Nick’s patience. Over the last hour, he had repeated a tired “we should go” at least every ten minutes, as if saying it enough times might finally convince them to abandon the mission.

But Hudson and Connor wandered into every store they passed, unhurried and unapologetic. They tried on clothes, studied themselves critically in the mirrors, bought a few things and discarded others with equal ease. They even bought Nick a couple of things—more as a peace offering than out of actual need—and that seemed to keep him content for at least half an hour. They had lunch at a Ukrainian restaurant inside the mall, commenting on the shopping bags piled at their feet as though they weren’t drawing attention at all, deliberately ignoring the photos being taken of them from a distance. There were stares, whispers, phones raised discreetly in their direction, but they chose not to give any of it more weight than necessary.

Connor’s flight to Toronto was leaving that same afternoon, and to his surprise, Hudson told him that Nick had managed to get him a seat on the same plane, though not next to him. The next day they would resume filming, and they both knew that once the routine began, they would be completely swallowed by the schedule. That was why they wanted to make the most of that brief window of freedom, those last few hours before returning to work, to distract themselves and allow for a breath that soon wouldn’t belong to them anymore.

Connor took advantage of the moment when Nick went to the restroom, just before they decided to head back to the hotel, to ask Hudson about the doubt that had been lingering in his mind since that morning.

“Hey,” Connor said, catching Hudson’s attention as he lifted a spoonful of plain frozen yogurt to his mouth. Hudson glanced up and, still chewing, tipped his chin slightly, signaling for him to continue. “Is it okay that you came here?”

“What do you mean?” Hudson asked, genuinely confused.

“Kiley,” Connor clarified.

“Oh…” Hudson set the spoon inside the cup, resting it against the cardboard rim, and took a few seconds before answering. “It’s fine. It was just one day early.”

He didn’t look at him when he said it. And that tiny detail—almost imperceptible— made something in Connor’s chest tighten he worried that the evasion meant the opposite, that maybe it had caused a problem after all, that Hudson’s effort to travel and try to fix things had been compromised because of him.

“I’m sorry if that causes you any trouble,” he added, more quietly.

“I told you it’s fine,” Hudson cut in, though his tone remained gentle, without a trace of irritation. “I mean it.”

Connor nodded, but he couldn’t silence the hollow feeling beginning to form in his stomach.

“Are you two okay?” he asked finally, unable to feign indifference.

“Better than ever,” Hudson replied with an easy smile.

Connor felt something inside him drop by a fraction of an inch. It’s fair, he told himself. He should be glad.If whatever had happened between them was already resolved, then that was the right outcome.

“You’re never going to tell me what happened between you two, are you?” he pressed, even knowing he might not have the right to that answer.

“Nope,” Hudson said, the smile never leaving his face. “Or at least not right now. You don’t have to worry. Everything’s fine.”

When Nick came back, Connor wasn’t sure how to feel about any of it. Hudson seemed to be fine with Kiley, and that didn’t surprise him; after more than six years together, certain things simply settle into place, and it’s almost impossible for minor details to shake something built over that much time. Not like his own situation, where the relationship had apparently never been solid enough to withstand even the slightest pressure.

When they returned to the hotel, Hudson walked with his eyes fixed on his phone. Connor watched him scroll, brow slightly furrowed, focused on something that seemed to demand more attention than usual.

“Everything okay?” Connor asked at last.

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Hudson replied, locking the screen and turning to look at him. “Sophie’s been texting me since yesterday,” he admitted.

“Oh.”

Connor didn’t add anything else. He had caught a glimpse of Sophie’s message reflected on the locked screen while checking what François had sent Hudson, and he knew that if Hudson was bringing it up now, the conversation was probably heading back to the same uncomfortable place it had reached the day before.

“Did she say anything specific?” Connor asked carefully.

“She first asked if I’d talked to you. I told her I was with you.”

Connor turned toward him. The reaction was enough to make Hudson think he’d made a mistake.

“Should I not have?” he added quickly.

“No, I mean…” Connor exhaled slowly. “He’s probably been questioning her. Since we were together the other night, he might think she knows something. But I’m almost certain she wouldn’t say anything, even if she knew where I was staying.

“What do you mean?”

“I think she knows everything.”

“Why do you say that?” Hudson’s voice rose slightly.

“Uh…” Connor hesitated, weighing every Word before saying it aloud. “I think, in short, she was trying to tell me that François had cheated on me, but instead of saying it outright she dropped a bomb: ‘François doesn’t deserve you.’”

“Oh.” Hudson looked back down at his phone. “So that’s what she’s trying to tell me. I didn’t think anyone else knew.”

There was bitterness in his tone, a barely restrained harshness, as if the mere memory of François’s betrayal churned his stomach.

“What do you mean?”

Hudson didn’t answer. He simply extended the phone toward Connor. He took it just as the elevator doors opened in front of them and the three of them stepped inside in silence. On the screen, a string of messages from Sophie appeared, one after another.

Hey, how is Connor?
I know he’s your best friend and if you’re with him by now you probably know everything.
I’ve tried to contact him but my messages aren’t going through. Do you know if he’s mad at me?
Can you tell him I tried to tell him?
Or at least that I tried to make him say it first?
That time you saw us outside your trailer, I gave him an ultimatum to tell him.
And now he’s acting like a martyr and I’m so mad. I’m really mad at him.
Would it be wrong if I comforted him a little? I didn’t think I’d feel sorry for him, but damn, he looks like hell right now.
But don’t let Connor give in. He doesn’t deserve any of this.
Can you tell him to call me?
I want to know how he is.

Warmth spread through Connor’s chest as he read the messages; Sophie was genuinely worried about him. Even though she had been François’s friend first, that didn’t stop her from taking his side now, and that stubborn loyalty felt unexpectedly comforting. For a moment he considered calling her, thinking maybe it was the right thing to do. But he dismissed the idea almost immediately, because he knew that the second he heard her voice, questions would surface—questions he didn’t want to ask, and even less to hear answered: how she had found out, whether she knew who the other person was, how many more times it had happened, whether François had confessed or if she had discovered it on her own.

And Connor was having a good day with Hudson—surprisingly light. He had managed to clear his head, to breathe without the memory tightening his chest again, and he didn’t want—at least not that day—to drag the weight of François’s betrayal back into the center of everything.

He handed the phone back to Hudson just as the elevator doors opened on Nick’s floor. Nick stepped out with a shopping bag carrying the things they had bought him and barely turned to say lightly, “See you in the lobby at 2:45.”

The doors slid shut again, and by the time they reached their floor, Connor’s mood had already collapsed. Just reading Sophie’s messages, knowing François was wrecked right now, stirred something uncomfortable in him. He didn’t pity him; he was too hurt to feel compassion. And yet, he didn’t find relief in that hardness either. It didn’t feel good.

“I’m sorry,” Hudson said behind him. “I think I screwed up by showing you those messages.”

“No,” Connor said quickly. “I mean…” He sighed, set his bags on the bed while Hudson placed his on the dresser. “I was just thinking I’ll inevitably have to talk to him, but…” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I don’t know how to face him. And now work is going to be insane. CAA’s probably going to start pushing about that damn clause, and I’ll have to see him sooner than I want to and—”

“Hey.” Hudson closed the distance between them. “Breathe, okay?”

Connor nodded and forced himself to focus on his breathing—slow, deep, as if the simple act of inhaling could contain the chaos threatening to spill over.

“You don’t have to talk to him until you’re ready, all right?” Connor nodded again. “Maybe you’ll have to see him for work, and that might happen before you feel prepared. And maybe…” Hudson hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “The way he’s acting right now, he’ll find a way to fly to Toronto to talk to you.”

A knot tightened in Connor’s stomach. He knew that was true. If François hadn’t done it yet, it was only because he didn’t know where to find him. But once he was back in Toronto, François could show up at any moment, unannounced, demanding a conversation Connor wasn’t sure he could endure.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, dropping into the same position as the day before: back against the wall, legs on the bed, knees bent. “What am I supposed to do if we can’t get out of that clause before CAA forces something? My agents are working on it, but I’m terrified.”

“Did you sign anything?” Hudson asked sharply. Connor shook his head.

“Then don’t,” Hudson replied firmly. “They’ll retaliate somehow, we know that. But we have to trust your team—and if necessary, mine too. We’ll make this work.”

Connor nodded, clinging completely to those words.

“Could you at least for the rest of today not think about it?” Hudson looked away. “Could you not think about him?”

Connor studied him carefully, because there was something in the way that last statement landed that stirred something uneasy in him. He let out a short, nasal laugh and lowered his gaze; his forearms were resting on his knees, his hands hanging loosely between his legs, as if he suddenly didn’t know where to put them. For a moment he thought he might be seeing things that weren’t there—that his own feelings for Hudson were pushing him to read too much into it, to imagine that maybe Hudson didn’t want him going back to François for reasons deeper than simple betrayal.

“What?” Hudson asked. Though he tried to sound neutral, there was a faint edge of irritation in his voice, probably triggered by that misplaced laugh.

“It’s nothing.” Connor shook his head, brushing it off.

And yet he couldn’t stop thinking how almost absurd it was to feel so furious at François while, at the same time, indulging in silent fantasies where Hudson might be jealous, where maybe there was something more than friendship beating underneath all of it.

“That day at Hermès,” Hudson began thoughtfully. “Now that I think about it, it makes sense. You two had argued a lot before, but that day he looked wrecked. I guess he’d already done what he did, and that’s why he got so furious with me when I confronted him.”

Connor watched him in silence for a second before asking,

“Are you trying to get me to stop thinking about him, or to forgive him?”

Hudson lifted his eyebrows slightly.

“Does my opinion on that really matter?”

“Yes, it matters to me,” Connor held his gaze without wavering. “And if you just told me not to think about him, why are you bringing him up?”

Hudson looked away again. The movement was subtle, but Connor caught the nervousness in that avoidance, the contained tension in his shoulders. He forced himself to push aside the thoughts threatening to take shape, because he was almost certain he was misreading the reaction, that his mind was reading into things. Though, if he were honest with himself, he knew no one read Hudson better than he did. No one except— No. He refused to finish that thought.

“All I want is for you to make a decision you won’t regret later,” Hudson finally said, his calm sounding carefully put together. “And when I say that, I mean all possibilities. Sorry if I’m crossing a line again by bringing it up, but if that decision involves forgiving him… I’m sure I’ll be angry. I’ll get over it, but I’ll be angry. Even so, I’ll respect whatever you decide. It’s your life.”

Connor held his gaze, steady.

“You keep talking about him.”

“Connor…”

“Huddy, I have no fucking idea what I’m going to do right now, okay?” he replied, not aggressive, but brutally honest. “First I need to have that damn conversation, and then I’ll decide what I’m going to do. But if it makes you feel better, at this moment I don’t want anything to do with him.”

“It’s not that it makes me feel better, it’s just—”

“Whatever,” Connor interrupted softly, but he was tired. “I understand you. I really do. I know it can’t be easy for you to believe it, because all this time I’ve been an idiot who’s given in too many times—with him and with everyone else.. But I’m going to try to make a decision I can live with, okay? One that’s mine.”

Hudson held his eyes for a moment before nodding.

“Did you answer him?” Connor asked.

“I have no reason to,” Hudson replied.

The answer drew a small, genuine smile from Connor.

“Then it’s fine,” he said, exhaling in something close to relief. “I want, at least for today, to finish feeling okay. I was feeling okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Hudson murmured.

And in that I’m sorry there was no reproach, no insistence—just regret for brushing against a wound that was still open and bleeding.

“Why do you keep apologizing?” Connor lifted a brow, studying him. “That’s not like you.”

“I’m sor—” Hudson stopped himself and shook his head, frustrated. “I mean… I guess I keep bringing this up because I’m still really angry.”

Connor watched him in silence, a deep wave of gratitude settle in his chest.. It wasn’t just that Hudson was furious because someone had hurt him, or even that he genuinely cared; it was more than that. Hudson was still there—he always was—and Connor was certain he always would be. No matter how many questionable decisions Connor made, no matter if they argued or let pride get in the way, Hudson found a way to prioritize him, to support him even when he was angry. Connor liked knowing he wouldn’t fall apart, that he would take care of him even when Connor pretended he didn’t need it, that he would remind him—without ever saying it outright— that the entire world could turn its back on him, and Hudson still wouldn’t. Like that time at his house when they had fought and Connor ended up feeling physically sick; Hudson had set aside part of his anger because his worry outweighed it. Or when, furious over Connor’s bad choices, he still got on a plane just to make sure he wouldn’t be alone.

How was Connor supposed to control what he was starting to feel if that man kept doing things like that for him over and over again—without asking for anything in return, without demanding anything, without even hinting at anything in return?

Hudson studied his face closely and, not finding a clear answer in his expression, frowned slightly.

“What? Have I crossed too many boundaries these past few days?” he asked, squinting one eye, lips tilted in expectation.

“Which boundaries?” Connor smiled, pushing himself slightly away from the wall as he ran a hand over his face, trying to organize his thoughts before they slipped out the wrong way.

“You know which ones. Anything that has to do with your relationship with him was supposed to be off-limits, and I keep bringing it up over and over again…”

“Have we respected any of those boundaries since we talked about them?”

Hudson hesitated. He opened his mouth to answer and closed it almost immediately, unable to come up with a convincing reply. Because, as Connor saw it, he was sure Hudson saw it the same way. They had talked about keeping distance, about seeing other people, about reducing physical contact, about spending more time with their respective partners, about trying—even if it felt forced—not to be so present in each other’s lives. And above all, about not questioning what the other had with someone else. That was the unspoken rule.

“Have we stopped sleeping wrapped around each other?” Connor asked.

“No, but—”

“Have we actually gone out with other people?”

“You went out with Sophie and—”

“Have we stopped worrying about each other like this?”

“No, but—”

“Then what boundaries are you talking about?” Connor pressed, a faint smile curving his lips—not mocking, but aware.

Hudson exhaled, conceding slightly to the obvious.

“Fine. Clearly this is a conversation we need to have again, because…”

“What are your boundaries, Huddy?” Connor asked this time, genuinely curious.

“What do you mean?” Hudson frowned, confused.

“I mean…” Connor cleared his throat, aware of the ground he was stepping onto. “Would it bother you if I snuck into your room again to sleep wrapped around you?”

Hudson looked at him warily, and for a second Connor thought he might get angry.

“I don’t know,” he finally said, his tone dry, but not hostile. “Isn’t that part of what makes you feel guilty about how things ended up like this?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to answer?”

“Whether it’s inside the boundaries or outside them.”

Hudson looked at him for several seconds, carefully weighing his response, as if he knew one wrong word could tip something they were still pretending to keep balanced.

“Inside the boundaries.”

Connor couldn’t stop the tension in his chest from easing just a little.

“So I can go back to hugging you to sleep?”

“Are you deaf? I just answered,” Hudson shot back, arching a brow. “Besides, didn’t we do that last night anyway?”

“I thought you were just giving in because I looked pathetic.”

“Yeah, that too.”

Connor smiled, satisfied—almost relieved. Hudson had that unsettling ability to make him feel better without trying, to loosen the knot in his chest until everything else faded and only he remained. Maybe he had been blind, or naive, convincing himself that the peace he felt beside him, the need to have him close, could simply be explained by the fact that Hudson was his best friend.

I like you, Huddy, he wanted to say. I like you a lot. And maybe you’d think I’m saying it because of everything that’s happening, because of the recent chaos, but that’s not it. I really like you. And I’m scared, because what I feel could be the beginning of the end for us. And I can lose everyone else—but not you.

Connor watched him for several more seconds, fully aware of how much it terrified him that Hudson might discover what he felt. Connor had an almost tragic knack for ruining everything., and he was convinced that this—this exactly—would be the final mistake. And yet something stronger than fear was pushing him forward, a blunt force pushing him to stop running and carefully explore what was really stirring in his chest. Maybe, unconsciously, he was testing the ground, evaluating whether at some future point what he felt could be spoken out loud without the world collapsing. Maybe—absurdly, dangerously—he was hoping for a miracle, for the smallest possibility that Hudson might one day feel the same.

An insistent voice in his head screamed at him to stop, to step back before crossing a line that couldn’t be erased, that he would regret it and bleed for his own recklessness. Still, he kept going.

“Visiting you in Vancouver on our days off and doing something fun, just the two of us?”

“Inside the boundaries.”

Hudson’s tone didn’t change. He seemed comfortable, though he was watching Connor as if trying to figure out how far Connor intended to take this.

“Going shopping together?”

“Inside the boundaries. What do you think we just did?” he gestured toward the bags.

“Wearing a bracelet that says ‘Hollanov–HudCon’?”

Hudson laughed. That damn bracelet always found its way back into the conversation.

“Inside the boundaries.”

Connor smiled.

“Will you wear yours again?”

“And you?”

“Of cour—” He stopped himself when he remembered he’d asked Tayler to send his to François’s house in Vancouver. He dropped his gaze.

“What’s wrong?”

“Tayler sent my bracelet to his house.”

“Shit,” Hudson muttered. “We can buy another one.”

“I want that one back.” Connor let his head fall back against the wall and winced at the impact, though it wasn’t serious.

“How about you start by being less stupid?” Hudson shot back, sitting in front of him on the bed, close enough to brush the side of his head where he’d hit the wall. “It’s already misshapen on this side.”

“Isn’t that from my perfect curls?”

Hudson tugged at his hair, and Connor laughed.

“I guess I’ll have to get it back. I need to pick up my things anyway. Half my stuff is still in that house.”

“I can go with you if you want,” Hudson said—and his expression betrayed a flicker of immediate regret.

“Would you do that?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replied, though there was the faintest hesitation in his voice.

“Come with me to clear out my ex’s house?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, Huddy.” Connor exhaled, lightly exasperated. “Inside or outside the boundaries?”

“How would that be outside the boundaries if I’m the one who suggested it?”

“Because your face is screaming that you wish you’d kept your mouth shut. I just want to make sure you actually want to.”

“I’ll do it,” Hudson confirmed. “I just don’t want things to be hard for you.”

“Harder?”

“Yes. Worse. It can always get worse.”

Connor braced his hands against the mattress and shifted when his ass started to ache from sitting in the same position for so long. Hudson tried to pull away with the movement, but Connor caught him by the waist and kept him close.

“Arguing because I don’t show up within an hour to a hotel room?” Connor continued, not letting go.

“Outside the boundaries.” Hudson smiled, remembering what had happened last time.

“Getting another matching tattoo?”

“Inside the boundaries.”

“Getting mad if you don’t reply to my message?”

“Outside the boundaries.”

“Voice call instead of video call?”

“Outside the boundaries.” Hudson rolled his eyes.

“Wearing your cologne?”

“Inside the boundaries.”

“Hugging you?”

“Inside the boundaries.”

“Smelling you?”

Hudson’s body tensed instantly, and this time Connor noticed. He told himself he should stop—that he was pushing too far—but he didn’t.

“Can I smell you?” he asked, sliding his index finger up along Hudson’s neck. “You always smell good, Huddy.”

Hudson shifted slightly when the touch tickled.

“Isn’t that a little creepy?”

“You’re not answering correctly.”

“Connor.” His voice carried a warning.

“Inside or outside the boundaries?”

“Inside the boundaries,” Hudson answered, lowering his gaze, unable to hold Connor’s gaze.

Hudson’s answer sent Connor’s heart straight into his throat, pounding wildly against his ribs so hard his body almost trembled. It wasn’t new—he’d done it before. He liked the scent of Hudson’s skin; he liked it when he wore cologne, when he carried only the clean trace of soap, even his natural smell, unfiltered. So the fact that Hudson didn’t truly find it strange—despite implying he did—lit something inside him. He ignored the persistent feeling that he was about to ruin everything and chose to take the risk anyway.

“And kissing you?” Connor let it slip without thinking. He didn’t take it back; instead, he clarified with precision. “Kissing you on the lips?”

He lifted Hudson’s chin gently and ran his thumb, vertically, over the center of his lips.

Hudson’s expression changed completely. The trace of amusement vanished, replaced by unmistakable panic; his eyes widened slightly, his lips trembled, tense, as if the air had suddenly become too toxic to breathe.

“I asked you whether kissing you is inside or outside the boundaries.” Connor pressed. His voice was barely a whisper, but there was desperation in his eyes. “Answer me.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself, Connor,” Hudson shot back as he stood up.

Connor grabbed his wrist before he could walk away, pulled him back, and pulled him down into the space between his legs. Hudson didn’t have time to react—because Connor cupped his face in both hands, drew him close, and kissed him.

Connor’s lips crashed against Hudson’s with urgency, clumsy in the extra second Hudson took to part his lips.Connor caught his lower lip and tasted him before he could stop himself—sweet—sweeter than the times he’d kissed him under the cold gaze of a camera, playing someone they weren’t. He could still taste the faint trace of the yogurt ice cream Hudson had eaten. His heart was racing. He held Hudson’s face firmly, then slid one hand to the back of his neck, tangling his fingers in the hair brushing Hudson’s collar.

He felt Hudson’s initial protest in the hands pressing against his shoulders, as if he were about to push him away—but the resistance lasted only a moment. Almost immediately, those hands moved up to the base of his jaw and his cheek, holding him with a different kind of resolve. The kiss remained urgent, desperate, and their breathing began to break in the narrow space between them.

Hudson’s mouth opened just enough for Connor’s tongue to slip inside., and when he felt it caught and drawn in, a shudder ran through him. Hudson pulled him even closer, as if proximity itself weren’t enough, and answered with an intensity that shifted the rhythm of the kiss. Connor understood the difference then: this wasn’t rehearsed choreography or a scene they’d played over and over. It was Hudson—no character, no script. And even though Connor had started the kiss, it was Hudson guiding it now.

Connor became aware that a soft sound had escaped him, because Hudson reacted instantly, arching his body to close what little space remained between them. Connor was pressed back against the headboard now, Hudson practically sprawled over him, the warmth and weight of his body unmistakable, chest against chest, mouth against mouth, neither willing to yield an inch. Connor slid his hands down to Hudson’s waist and, with a brief, decisive movement, shifted him more firmly over his lap They hadn’t stopped kissing.

When they finally parted by a few inches—just enough to open their eyes—they looked at each other, breathless. The fear was obvious on both their faces, but so was the desire, unbroken, asking for more. Hudson was still on top of him, one arm braced beside Connor’s head to keep from dropping his full weight onto his chest. He studied Connor’s face for several seconds, and whatever he saw there—the plea, the urgency written across his flushed lipsmust have been enough, because this time Hudson leaned down to kiss him first.

Unlike the first, the second kiss was soft. A brief brush of lips, then another, and another, until Hudson caught Connor’s lower lip and held it with a tenderness that sharply contrasted the earlier roughness. The kiss deepened slowly, turning unhurried, deliberate—aware of the other—revealing something both of them felt but had never voiced.

When they finally pulled away, they were still holding each other’s faces, noses brushing, breaths colliding in the warm air between them, chests rising and falling in ragged rhythm. They stayed like that for a few seconds, suspended in what had just happened, until Hudson was the first to let go.

“I’m sorry,” Hudson said quickly, standing up in one abrupt movement. He dragged a hand over his face, tried to turn away, but couldn’t. He looked back at him. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Connor asked, confused. “I’m the one who kissed you.”

“But you’re not okay.” The guilt in Hudson’s voice was unmistakable. “You’re vulnerable, and you always pull this shit when you’re like this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve done it before.” Hudson’s breathing picked up, as if the words were hard to force out. “That time you fought with—” He shook his head, unable to say the name. “That night we had sushi at my place. And then every time you come to my room to spend the night because—” He broke off again. “No. No…” He dragged a hand through his hair, visibly unsettled, as if trying to piece together memories that were overwhelming him. “Montreal was the same. Every time you feel like shit, you—”

“No, Huddy,” Connor cut in. “Listen—”

The sentence died mid-air. Both of them startled at the sudden sound. Their heads turned at the same time. Hudson pulled completely away and walked to the window, stopping there with one hand on his hip and the other pressed to his forehead, as if trying to steady himself.

Connor crossed the room in long strides and opened the door without checking the peephole. It was Nick. And the look on his face made something heavy drop straight into Connor’s stomach.

“Is Hudson here with you?”

Connor nodded and opened the door wider to let him in.

“I’m sorry, guys, but CAA may have moved faster than I thought. You need to see this.”

The urgency in his tone wiped away any trace of what had just happened in the room, replacing it with a different kind of tension. Nick held out his iPad. Hudson stepped closer to Connor, and they read at the same time:

 

🔥 ICE MELTING FAST🔥

Heated Rivalry Star Accused of Double Life Amid On-Set Affair Rumors

What began as record-breaking success may now be spiraling into one of the biggest scandals in recent streaming history. Since CRAVE brought Rachel Reid’s Heated Rivalry to the screen, the adaptation has dominated global charts, surpassing expectations and redefining queer sports romance on television. Viewers praised not only the storytelling, but the “undeniable,” “electric,” and “impossibly real” chemistry between its two leads.

 

A Relationship Kept Quiet — Until Now

One of the series’ breakout stars—publicly known for his outspoken personality and strong stance on loyalty and integrity—has reportedly been in a long-term relationship of over three years with a woman outside the industry, identified by sources only as “K.”

Though the actor rarely discussed his private life in interviews, fans had previously uncovered photographs showing “K” attending private events and wrap celebrations tied to the series. Insiders describe the relationship as “stable” and “serious,” with some even suggesting future plans were being discussed. That stability, however, may not have survived the pressures of production.

According to a source close to the actor:

||: “He and ‘K’ had a stable relationship. He always appeared deeply committed to her. But once filming began, it was clear something was changing.”

 

Suspicions on Set

Several crew members, speaking anonymously, describe the dynamic between the actor and his fellow cast member as “obvious” during filming.

||:  “It wasn’t just professional chemistry. There were lingering looks, time spent together outside of filming, and a closeness that didn’t go unnoticed.”

 

Production insiders allegedly chose discretion, prioritizing the international promotion of the series during its peak popularity rather than addressing what some perceived as growing tension behind the scenes. Our sources indicate that “K” may have believed the relationship remained intact during key stages of filming and global press commitments.

 

Public Values vs. Private Choices

What has shocked most is the apparent contradiction between the actor’s public image and these allegations.

He built his reputation on authenticity—speaking openly in interviews about integrity, loyalty, and aligning his actions with his values. He positioned himself as someone unafraid of accountability.

Ironically, sources now suggest that while presenting that image publicly, he may have been leading a double life. Though he kept his relationship with “K” largely out of the spotlight, those closely following his career were aware of her presence. The pair reportedly attended private gatherings together, even if they never formally walked red carpets as a couple.

Now, we are questioning whether the very authenticity that fueled his rise was, in fact, carefully curated.

 

Will This Impact the Series?

Heated Rivalry has become a cultural touchstone, celebrated for its representation and emotional intensity within the world of professional sports drama.

The question now is whether this emerging scandal could jeopardize not only the actor’s personal reputation but also the production’s ongoing success—particularly as promotional obligations and contractual negotiations continue behind closed doors. Our editorial team has reached out to the actor involved, his representatives, and the streaming platform for comment. As of publication, none have issued a statement.

 

We will continue reporting 🔥

Because when love and betrayal collide, the ice never stays frozen for long.

Chapter End Notes

As I mentioned in the previous chapter, I’ll be writing one about what happened in Vancouver with Kiley and Hudson. It’ll probably be the next update, though I’m not 100% sure yet. If it’s not the next update, it’ll be the one after.

I was so nervous about writing their first real kiss. I really hope I didn’t disappoint anyone 🥺😭 I’m genuinely dying of nerves because so many of you had such high expectations for it. I’d planned from the very beginning for their first kiss to happen halfway through the story, and we’re exactly at that point now.

Thank you so much to everyone who’s still reading, and to those of you who message me here or on Twitter (X). I’ve been really emotional about all of this these past few days.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter.

P.S. I’ve seen some of you say you skip François’ scenes, lmao, and I regret to inform you that Connor’s confrontation scene is… unfortunately going to be very long for you.

Chapter 16: Trial by Narrative

Chapter Notes

This chapter was almost ready yesterday. I even said on X that I’d be posting it, but it just didn’t happen. Honestly, it was a bit hard for me to write. But here it is. I hope it was worth the wait.

Sorry in advance for any mistakes. I didn’t get the chance to reread it before posting.

Connor had been watching Hudson for over ten minutes, not daring to interrupt him. He stayed perched on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, head buried in his hands. It looked like he was tugging at his hair—not hard, not enough to hurt—more a mindless, repetitive motion than a real attempt to bleed off the tension. He hadn’t shifted once, as if moving would mean admitting this was actually happening.

Nick was on the phone with Elena, and Connor was grateful his agent was handling Hudson’s mess as if he were his own client. Still, he knew it wasn’t just solidarity. When he told CAA the decision he’d made, he’d probably be staring down the same kind of fallout. The thought twisted his stomach into a tight knot, but he didn’t take his eyes off Hudson.

A few minutes earlier, Connor had taken Hudson’s phone, silenced it, turned off the Wi-Fi, and slipped it into his pocket. He didn’t want notifications and calls hitting him one after another, because they were bound to start flooding in. He knew Hudson had his socials filtered, certain alerts blocked, exposure limited—but there was always a crack somewhere. The comments always found a way through. Connor had lived through it every time something about him and François blew up in the public eye. No matter how much you try to control the flow, mute alerts, restrict access—the chaos always finds you.

Finally, he moved closer. He had waited deliberately, wanting to give him the space he needed to process what had happened before stepping in. He sat beside him and carefully slipped an arm around his shoulders, almost measuring the weight of the gesture. Hudson went rigid instantly, as if the contact added a burden he could no longer carry.

“There are a lot of things we can do about this, Huddy,” Connor said, pulling his arm back from his shoulders to run his fingers gently through Hudson’s hair instead. “There’s a lot wrong with that article.”

Hudson’s eyes were red—not from crying. He hadn’t cried. Hudson didn’t cry easily. Maybe they were red from the position he’d held for so long, or from the stress of the smear campaign they both assumed was CAA’s retaliation after the last meeting. His expression wasn’t just anger or frustration. It was disbelief.

Hudson didn’t answer. He stood and walked to the window, stopping there with his back to Connor, staring outside like he was trying to be anywhere but there..

The article was clearly aimed at Hudson, and Connor knew that for people who didn’t follow them closely, there might be the faintest sliver of doubt about who it referred to. The wording was deliberately specific about the actor’s personality, written in a way that steered readers toward thinking it was one of the leads. But that wasn’t even the worst part. The real problem was the pixelated photos that ran alongside it—blurry enough that you couldn’t make out faces clearly, but not new. They’d already circulated online before, showing Hudson with Kiley. Anyone willing to dig even a little would find them and connect the dots in seconds.

On top of that, the piece never once mentioned the supposed person Hudson was allegedly cheating on his girlfriend with. That deliberate omission would only fuel speculation, guaranteeing the story wouldn’t die anytime soon but instead linger long enough to keep doing damage.

Connor felt fucking useless. There wasn’t much he could do for Hudson right now, and Hudson didn’t seem to be looking for comfort anyway. Connor understood that. Hudson must have a thousand things running through his head—his image, public perception, Kiley, his family, his reputation… and maybe Connor.

Just minutes earlier, they’d been wrapped up in each other’s mouths, but the situation hadn’t given either of them time to process what had happened. Connor hadn’t even had the chance to clear up the doubts that had hit Hudson afterward. Because from Hudson’s perspective, it could all look like one thing: that Connor had used him to numb his own pain after finding out his boyfriend had cheated on him.

That conversation would have to wait. It wasn’t the priority. Still, he was aware it added extra weight to what Hudson was already carrying. It wasn’t like his career would implode over an accusation of cheating on his girlfriend—this industry rarely destroys someone completely over personal scandals, not over something like this. But a well-orchestrated smear campaign? That could chip away at his image, close doors, leave scars that didn’t fade easily.

What really scared Connor was what might happen before they could take legal action. Despite the noise, he was convinced Hudson had everything on his side—because it was all bullshit. Not just the cheating accusation. Almost everything the magazine implied was a lie. No one had contacted Elena. No one had contacted him. The article threw out “three years” like a random number plucked from thin air, a detail that only underscored how baseless it was. He doubted anyone from production had confirmed anything, and it was likely they didn’t even know what the hell they were claiming. They’d taken a rumor that had been floating around online for months and squeezed it for clicks, testing the waters, hoping to land on something explosive enough to turn speculation into a full-blown wildfire.

Nick walked back into the room, and Hudson turned toward him with an expression that wrecked Connor: he looked like a kid waiting to hear he wasn’t grounded after all, clinging to the hope that this would all be fixed and he could go back outside and play like nothing had happened. Connor’s chest tightened at the sight of him—so vulnerable, so far removed from the confident image he showed the world.

Nick looked at both of them and gestured for them to sit. Then he dropped onto the couch Hudson had dragged closer to the bed. Connor took the right side of the mattress, leaning his back against the headboard, and Hudson settled on the other side, mirroring him, like he needed to be close—even if he couldn’t bring himself to look at him.

“I don’t think you should be this worried, Hudson,” Nick said evenly. “I know it’s easy for me to say that since it’s not about me”—he made a small gesture with his hand, underlining the obvious—“but if it’s all false, then it’s just a matter of time before the truth comes out.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Hudson asked. His voice sounded fragile, like he was speaking in the middle of a snowstorm—each word barely holding together, his teeth almost chattering from the tension. “What did Elena say?”

“I think the first thing, before we go straight to accusing CAA, is to focus on the magazine,” Nick replied, lifting the iPad as if the problem itself were trapped inside it. “But beyond that, the way the narrative is built—what you choose to show the public—is going to be crucial. I think that’ll carry more weight than anything else.”

“So what’s next?” Connor asked. “A public statement? Through what channel?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to do it through CAA’s PR department. But unfortunately, we still have to loop them in. I mean, you and Elena need to tell CAA about the situation and that you’re planning to release a statement,” Nick said with a slight shrug. “If our suspicion is right, they’ll most likely give you the green light to do it through your manager, who’s independent from CAA. Because if they’re behind this, they won’t risk the magazine implying the statement was coordinated with them. But if we handle it”—he immediately corrected himself—“I mean, if Elena handles it, then the message to CAA is clear: we’re completely ignoring the possibility that they’re involved. That gives us breathing room.”

Connor pressed his lips together, fighting the smile that threatened to surface at Nick’s little speech. He kept including himself in the plan—and, implicitly, Brad—as if they were naturally part of the team assigned to protect Hudson. Connor liked the simple idea that his inner circle cared enough about Hudson to mobilize instantly in his defense. And while at some point he’d wondered if Nick was just anticipating a similar mess blowing up in his own face, deep down he knew it wasn’t just strategy. Nick genuinely liked Hudson. He’d help him without expecting a damn thing in return.

“I never talked about my relationship with anyone on set. Not even with CAA,” Hudson said, his voice still tight. “I mean, it was very private. Practically airtight. I don’t know anyone from the show’s crew who knew me before or who even knows Kiley.” He exhaled and let his head fall back against the headboard, like the weight of everything had settled at the base of his skull. “I know people have been talking about it online and whatever, but…”

“Because it’s all bullshit,” Connor cut in firmly. “The speculation’s been around for months. The only thing they did differently was make it ‘official.’” He lifted his hands and made air quotes around the last word, dripping sarcasm. “They don’t even know how long you’ve been together. If a real insider had fed them that information, don’t you think they would’ve said it’s been over six years just to make it worse?”

“I agree,” Nick added. “I think they’re just testing the waters. Honestly, I don’t even think this was meant to be the big scandal. They might just want your name circulating in the press for a few days and then make the real move.”

Nick unlocked his iPad and scrolled, like he was trying to confirm a theory in real time.

“If it’s really them and it’s all fake, then you have nothing to worry about,” Connor said.

“It’s not just that it’s fake, Connor,” Hudson shot back, turning to look at him. “Some people will read it once and never bother checking if it’s true. And I don’t give a shit what random people think about me—I only care what my family and friends think. But if this starts affecting my public image, then yeah, I care. And besides…” He looked away, like whatever he was about to say weighed more than everything else—or like he couldn’t say it while meeting Connor’s eyes. “I don’t want this affecting Kiley either. I’m worried about what she’ll think when—”

He stopped abruptly. His expression shifted, like he’d just remembered something crucial. He patted down his jeans pockets, then his jacket, movements sharp and sudden.

“Have you seen my phone?” he asked, scanning different corners of the room like it might magically appear.

“Huddy,” Connor said, almost pleading. His name alone was a request not to do this.

“Give it to me,” Hudson insisted. “I need to—”

“I don’t think that’s a good—”

“Give it to me.”

This time his voice was firm, unbreakable. Connor sighed, pulling it from his pocket just in time to see her name flashing across the screen: Kiley. Hudson practically snatched the phone out of his hands, answered with a low, “Ki,” and walked out of the room without looking back.

Connor stared at the door Hudson had just disappeared through, and only then did he let himself process what he’d done.He’d kissed him. It hadn’t been some clumsy impulse or an accident. He’d done it deliberately—without hesitation, without regret in that moment. But Hudson was with Kiley, and as he himself had said barely a couple of hours earlier, they were “better than ever.” And still, Hudson had kissed him back. Not just once—afterward, he’d been the one to lean in again.

Connor could try to explain himself, reconstruct the moment, convince Hudson he’d misread what came after. None of that changed the central fact: Hudson was in a relationship, and he had just cheated on his girlfriend. With him. And that made Connor complicit.

The weight of that reality came down on him like gravity had suddenly doubled, pinning him beneath invisible pressure. He felt heavy, crushed into the mattress, his spine flattening against the wall behind him. He felt like shit, because Kiley had always been kind to him—genuinely kind. How the hell could he be so outraged over what François had done to him if he was now, essentially, the third party? The contradiction ripped through him, raw and unfiltered. What right did he have to be so furious with François if, just days after finding out about the betrayal, he’d gone and kissed someone else? The moral line he’d defended so fiercely was blurring under his own actions, and that hypocrisy was harder to face than any fucking tabloid headline.

When Connor first met Hudson in person, he couldn’t help thinking the screen didn’t do him justice. Hudson was far more handsome than he looked on camera—his skin smoother, his smile warmer, his charisma infinitely more blinding. There was something about his presence that couldn’t be fully captured in a series or an interview. And during that first meeting, Connor had also felt—quietly—a stab of disappointment when he found out Hudson had a girlfriend. He remembered the faint pang when he followed him on Instagram and saw the photos with Kiley. Photos Hudson later archived to avoid exposing her too much. That detail, small but significant, had drawn an invisible line between them—a boundary shaping the way Connor allowed himself to even look at him.

Maybe it had been his own fault for assuming, before they’d ever openly talked about it, that Hudson was straight. It had been an automatic, convenient conclusion, settling in before there’d been any real conversation about it. But when time eventually gave them space to talk honestly—not just about what they liked in general, but about the kind of people they were romantically or sexually drawn to—Hudson admitted he’d gone through an internal struggle with the homophobia he’d internalized, he’d carried through part of his adolescence. Realizing he was bisexual hadn’t been immediate or simple; it had been a process. In the past, he’d felt attracted to other men, had a few moments, a few almosts—but nothing fully explored, nothing that went beyond kisses or hands wandering. Partly because his relationship with Kiley had started when they were both very young, still in high school, and it had grown up with them.

Hudson believed relationships, at their core, should feel free. Yes, he was in a stable, monogamous relationship with Kiley—but he wasn’t jealous or possessive. He was rational more than territorial. He liked his partner to feel secure, but also free to explore without fear. Once, he’d told Connor they’d talked about the possibility of “opening the relationship”—not in a formal polyamorous sense, but as a way to allow occasional experiences if they both ever felt the need, always with prior communication. They’d never actually done it. But for Hudson, the possibility itself mattered: living every experience without letting it turn into resentment later on. He valued physical contact, his own freedom and his partner’s. He liked simply living—living without feeling like he was betraying something just by experiencing it.

When the first season ended and they started attending events, parties, and public appearances, Hudson caught criticism online for how physically affectionate and open he was with people. Some insinuated he was disrespecting his girlfriend; others speculated they’d already broken up. But those opinions didn’t seem to affect him or Kiley. For Hudson, it wasn’t disrespect—it was consistency with how he understood life. He would never cross a line without talking to her first. Or at least that’s what he’d said before.

“Oh. Oh,” Nick said suddenly, snapping Connor out of his thoughts.

“What? What is it?” Connor asked immediately. The look on Nick’s face was enough to send a fresh wave of dread crashing back in.

“I think we missed something really important,” Nick replied, his brow slightly furrowed. “And, honestly, I think this might’ve been exactly what CAA wanted.”

“What are you talking about?”

Nick held out the iPad, doubt etched all over his face. It was like he didn’t want to show him, like he was still considering sparing him the hit—but knew there was no way to keep it hidden. Connor took it.

On the screen was the magazine’s Instagram page, the comments section expanded. His gaze dropped as he started reading, a slow knot forming in his gut.

@nate.rozanov:
“No surprise. I saw Hudson and Connor last night at a restaurant here in Winnipeg. What are they doing alone together while the rest of the cast is filming season two?”

↳ @oliviajane_:
“There’s chemistry on screen… and clearly off it too.”

↳ @matt.hollander92:
“Since when does grabbing dinner mean anything? They literally work together.”

↳ @ilya_k94:
“Right, because people totally have private dinners while the rest of the cast is filming 🙄”

↳ @matt.hollander92:
“You’re implying things without proof.”

↳ @victoria.rose_:
“The proof is the people who saw them.”

↳ @matt.hollander92:
“‘People’ = rumors.”

↳ @nate.rozanov:
“I saw them. It’s not a rumor.”

@hannah.r_21:
“If you didn’t want to expose your girlfriend, the bare minimum was respecting her in the first place.”

↳ @ethanr_90:
“The issue isn’t who he was with. It’s that he cheated. Period.”

↳ @lucas.hollanov:
“And how exactly do you know he cheated? No one here has confirmation.”

↳ @grace_marie7:
“Funny how this comes out while he’s still in a relationship.”

↳ @lucas.hollanov:
“That’s what the media says, not him.”

↳ @alex.h_17:
“The only person who didn’t sign up for this is the girlfriend.”

↳ @lucas.hollanov:
“They’re also attacking Connor without knowing anything.”

↳ @ilya.v_:
“No one’s attacking him. We’re calling out behavior.”

↳ @lucas.hollanov:
“That’s literally attacking him.”

@emily.h_98:
“It’s obvious we’re talking about Hudson and Connor…”

↳ @dannyroz_:
“But which co-star are they even referring to?”

↳ @matthew.h97:
“They say ‘someone with a lot of chemistry’… and we’re supposed not to think of Connor?”

↳ @charlie_roz:
“Bet there’ll be an official statement soon.”

↳ @benji_rz:
“Watch them drop random candid pics with François to distract everyone.”

↳ @ann.hollanov:
“What if François is the perfect distraction?”

↳ @chris_holl_:
“This is starting to look like a love triangle written by the showrunners.”

↳ @lauren_kay_:
“Production’s probably in full crisis mode right now.”

↳ @matt.hollander92:
“You guys turn everything into a soap opera.”

↳ @victoria.rose_:
“Because they act like they’re in one.”

@jules.hollander:
“Hudson went from ‘private’ to ‘double life’ in a single article.”

↳ @willhollander_:
“That’s an exaggeration.”

↳ @ethanr_90:
“Exaggeration? There are photos.”

↳ @willhollander_:
“Photos of them having dinner. Wow. International scandal.”

↳ @grace_marie7:
“It’s not the dinner. It’s the context.”

↳ @willhollander_:
“You’re the ones inventing the context.”

↳ @hannah.r_21:
“Then he should clear it up. Simple as that.”

↳ @matthew.h97:
“And if he does, you’ll all say it’s PR.”

↳ @charlie_roz:
“Because it probably will be.”

Connor stopped scrolling. There was no need to keep reading. The accusation wasn’t aimed solely at Hudson anymore; the narrative was shifting, reshaping itself in real time before thousands of eyes, and it was starting to drag him down with it. The “chemistry” the magazine had hinted at was no longer promotional fluff—it was turning into public suspicion, into an alternate storyline people seemed more than willing to finish on their own.

“What photos are they talking about?” Connor asked, his mouth suddenly dry. “Photos of what?”

“I don’t know,” Nick said. “I’m guessing someone saw you last night and snapped a few, but I haven’t looked yet.”

Connor grabbed the iPad again. He searched his name alongside Hudson’s on social media, trying to see which images the comments were referring to. Under any other circumstances, he wouldn’t have cared. He and Hudson had done plenty of things together outside of work—they’d traveled, gone out to dinner, shared moments they’d even posted openly themselves. There had never been any attempt to hide. But now—maybe because the article wasn’t entirely false, because the kiss was still fresh in his mind and guilt still pressed against his chest—he felt like his head was about to split open from the stress.

It wasn’t one photo. It was dozens.

Pictures of them shopping at the mall just hours earlier; pictures of them eating at the Ukrainian restaurant; pictures of them walking through the mall; pictures of Hudson and Connor sitting on a bench while Hudson ate frozen yogurt. In most of them, Nick—his agent—was visible too. Hudson’s agent wasn’t there, but Nick’s presence alone could frame everything under the safe label of “work.” People had no way of knowing that Connor was the only one there for work-related stuff. No way of knowing Hudson had come exclusively for him. Under normal circumstances, none of that would matter. But now, under the shadow of the article and the comments, every image looked like a piece of evidence in a public trial.

Connor kept scrolling—and then he found them. Photos of the two of them at the restaurant, wine glasses in front of them. Photos of Connor brushing Hudson’s hair back in a gesture that looked far too intimate through the lens of a stranger. And in those last ones, Nick wasn’t there. It was just the two of them.

His stomach dropped. Because seen from the outside, stripped of context, stripped of explanation, those images didn’t require much imagination to become a completely different story.

Connor dropped the iPad onto the bed with a sharp movement, suddenly exhausted. The barrage of images and comments had drained him, like he’d run an absurd distance without ever moving. It pissed him off—that suffocating feeling of being guilty of something when, technically, nothing had even happened. And yet, reading the comments, he couldn’t help but feel implicated in every accusation, every malicious insinuation.

Because he had kissed him. Twice.
Because Hudson had a girlfriend.
Because until a few days ago, he’d had a boyfriend.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and turned it on; his hands were trembling with anxiety he could barely hide. He needed to know if anyone had tried to reach him. Someone like Jacob. Or maybe someone from CAA. The thought that conversations might already be happening without him made his chest tighten.

“You don’t need to panic,” Nick said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Even if there weren’t photos of you two, people would still be talking. What we have to do is stay calm, prepare an official statement, announce that we’re taking legal action against the magazine—and, if necessary, against anyone defaming you on social media.”

Nick kept talking, structuring solutions with the precision of someone used to putting out media fires, but Connor barely heard him. The words blurred into white noise in his ears. He was too anxious to process strategy.

As soon as his phone finished powering on, messages started flooding in, one after another, vibrating against his palm. There were dozens: his mom, Bailey, several numbers he didn’t recognize—and among them, one from Tayler that he managed to read before tapping it open: What the fuck do you know about that bullshit article? Call me.

A chill ran down his spine. They’d spent the last hour locked inside the hotel room while Nick talked to Elena and Hudson spiraled. Just one hour. And in that time, the article had already spread far enough to become general conversation—especially coming from a well-known outlet.

Just as he was about to call Tayler, François’s name flashed across the screen. Connor declined the call without a second thought. He didn’t want to talk to him. Not yet. And definitely not now.

Tayler’s phone rang barely twice before she answered.

“Con—”

“Bunny,” he cut her off almost immediately.

“What’s going on?” Tayler asked. She sounded calm, but Connor knew she was worried.

“It’s all false,” Connor rushed out. “All of it.”

“Yeah, I figured. That’s why I want to know what’s actually going on.”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. Tell Mom that…” He trailed off. What was he supposed to say? That he didn’t have that kind of relationship with Hudson? His mother probably wasn’t even thinking along those lines. This wasn’t even about him to begin with—Hudson was the one taking the hit. The fact that people were dragging his name into it didn’t make him the center of the storm. Hudson was the one drowning in the chaos. “No, forget it. If she asks, just tell her I’m fine. I’m not going to reply right now.”

“Okay,” Tayler said, resigned. “How’s Hudson?”

“Not great. We found out at the same time as everyone else. He’s talking to Kiley right now.”

“Oh…” Tayler sighed. “It’s fucked up they’re doing this. But it’s fake. It can’t be that hard to clear it up, right?”

“We will. Don’t worry.”

There was a brief silence on the other end.

“Hey…” Tayler said after a few seconds, lowering her voice slightly. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“Yes, you. Are you okay?”

Connor frowned. He didn’t fully understand what she meant.

“Why are you asking?”

“François texted me asking if I knew where you were staying,” Tayler replied, her tone turning bitter. “We haven’t talked except for your birthday, and I didn’t even have his number saved anymore. I didn’t even know who it was until he told me a couple hours later.”

Rage swelled in Connor’s chest.

“What did you tell him?”

He hadn’t only contacted Tayler. He’d reached out to Sophie and Hudson too. Connor refused to open Bailey’s message, because even if she had run into François a couple of times, he had no right to drag her into this. He had no right to expose to everyone that something was going on between them, no right to disregard his space, his privacy, to pressure him when he was clearly not ready to talk. Every single one of those actions made him angrier, stirring up an almost urgent need to confront him. Because it was ridiculous: his persistence didn’t feel like empathy or compassion. It felt like desperation. And that desperation, instead of bringing him closer, was only pushing him further away.

“That I didn’t know,” Tayler said, as if it were obvious. “Because I didn’t know where you were staying in Winnipeg. You two fought, didn’t you? Okay, don’t say anything. It’s pretty obvious.”

“We’ll talk about that later.”

“We don’t have to,” she sighed again. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. You know you can always talk to me.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“It’s just that you know he—”

“I know, Bunny. I know.”

Tayler had never liked François. From the moment Connor told her he was seeing him, she accepted it—but there was never any real interest in folding him into family plans. Tayler, on the other hand, adored Hudson. Once she’d even told him, half-joking, half-serious, “Too bad he’s already taken. Otherwise, he’d absolutely be part of this family.” Connor had scrunched up his face and shot back, “He already is.” But he knew exactly what she meant.

With François, though, Tayler had never quite clicked. At first she said it was the age gap. Later she claimed they just seemed too different. The last time they’d talked about it, she’d been blunt: “I just don’t like him.” No further explanation.

Connor swallowed at the thought, because he knew that when Tayler found out what had happened, she’d be furious. And it wouldn’t be surface-level anger—she’d unload every reservation she’d been holding back, every warning she’d chosen not to voice at the time. But that conversation wouldn’t happen now. He’d tell her later. So far, he’d only confessed the truth to Hudson, and for the moment that had been enough to ease the tightness in his chest. After the tears, all that remained was anger. A heavy, simmering anger that was just waiting for the right moment to explode when he finally stood face-to-face with François.

“Please call me when you know how you’re going to fix this,” Tayler said. “And tell Hudson I’m supporting him.”

“I will.”

Connor ended the call just in time to see Nick stand up and pick the iPad off the bed. He scrolled for a few more seconds, as if confirming something he already suspected, then sighed and looked at him seriously.

“I’m going to pack and head to the airport. I’m guessing as soon as we land, the team—or at least Jacob—is going to want to talk to you,” he said. Nick would fly with Connor to Toronto, stay a few days, then head back to Vancouver. “I’ll get in touch with Elena and Brad so we can meet in Toronto.” He lifted the iPad to chest height, emphasizing the obvious. “This isn’t just Hudson’s problem anymore. It’s yours too.”

Connor nodded silently.

Nick stepped out and held the door open so Hudson could come back into the room. Connor was still sitting on the bed; he set his phone down beside him and studied Hudson’s expression. He looked just as worried, but it didn’t seem like the call with Kiley had added extra weight to his shoulders.

“Everything okay?” Connor asked. Hudson looked at him like his voice had yanked him abruptly out of his thoughts. “I mean… with Kiley. Is she okay?”

“She’s worried,” Hudson replied with a shrug. “How do you think she is? Calm? Happy?”

“I just want to know how she is. There are a lot of possible reactions in a situation like this,” Connor defended himself.

“Yeah, well, she’s not okay,” Hudson said, raising his eyebrows like the answer should’ve been obvious.

Connor watched him for a few seconds.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked when he noticed the edge in Hudson’s tone.

“Why would I be?”

“I’m just trying to understand…”

Hudson exhaled in frustration.

“I don’t think it’s that hard, Connor. Can I feel fucking miserable for once without having to worry about making someone uncomfortable?”

“You can feel as miserable as you want. You’re not making me uncomfortable,” Connor shot back, holding in his own tension. “But don’t give me that shitty attitude. I’d rather you say things to my face than hide behind clipped, biting answers.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Hudson said, and now he sounded almost embarrassed. “Sorry if I’m being an asshole. This isn’t your fault. It’s just…” He sighed. “I expected anything but this” He gave a sad little smile. “I wasn’t ready. Not mentally, not physically. But it’s stupid. What they’re saying isn’t true. So I should just… I don’t know… ignore it.”

“Nick’s setting up a meeting with Elena and Brad in Toronto,” Connor said. Hudson raised an eyebrow at the mention of Brad, and Connor added, “People have started speculating that I’m the co-star they’re hinting at. There are a bunch of photos of us from last night and today all over social media.” He offered a faint smile, trying to downplay it. “Nick thinks that might’ve been CAA’s original intention. After all, it’s what they’ve wanted from the beginning.”

The color drained from Hudson’s face. He sat down on the same side of the bed as Connor, but at the far end. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, burying his head in his hands again, like he was about to start tugging at his hair again.

“So the fact that we’re here together could be misinterpreted,” Connor continued. “Nick thinks we need to handle this as a team, but the statement should come from you alone. I’m guessing if my team says anything, it’ll look suspicious.”

“Isn’t that a little contradictory?”

“What is?”

“Dragging us into the middle of this, letting us take the hits from everyone. It doesn’t make sense that they’d want something like that when, clearly, if this were true, they wouldn’t support it. No one would back us if there are people were getting hurt because of us.”

“Not everyone out there gives a shit about ethics or morality,” Connor said, pressing his lips together. “A lot of people would hate it, I’m sure. But there are plenty who’d just love the idea. That’s the audience they care about. And I don’t think they’re too worried about press backlash if they’ve got enough power to cancel major contracts and get a prestigious outlet to run this bullshit.”

“They really don’t give a fuck what happens to the show,” Hudson muttered, overwhelmed.

“I don’t think this will affect the show, Huddy,” Connor tried to reassure him. “It’s a lot to process right now, but we know it won’t go that far. Once the statement comes out—”

“It’s not your reputation,” Hudson cut him off. He’d lifted his head and was looking at Connor with irritation, his tone sharp enough to catch him off guard. “You can’t tell me it’ll just pass. Like I said before, No matter what we say, the doubt’s still going to be there.”

“You said you didn’t care.”

“Yeah, well, I say a lot of shit sometimes,” Hudson snapped. “I don’t care what they think, but it bruises my pride. Or maybe I’m so pissed at myself that when I think about that fucking article, I can’t completely convince myself I’m innocent.”

“What are you talking about?” Connor frowned. “You didn’t cheat on her.”

The words slipped out automatically, an easy reflex in search of comfort. But the second he said them, he felt how hollow they were. They had kissed. That was cheating. He knew it from the way Hudson scoffed under his breath. The silence stretched for a few seconds.

“We have to go,” Hudson said finally.

He stood, grabbed his suitcase, and dropped it onto the bed. He opened it and started shoving the shopping bags inside clumsily, moving them around without really making space. His brow was furrowed; the stress seemed to block even the simplest task, like packing.

Connor stepped forward and grabbed his arm to stop him. Hudson jerked away sharply, but Connor knew the irritation wasn’t truly directed at him, so he didn’t react. He reached for him again, more gently this time.

Hudson sighed and looked at him, annoyed.

“We have to leave. We have to get to the airport.” His voice was edged with frustration, but beneath the anger there was fear.

“I know,” Connor whispered.

He placed his hands on Hudson’s shoulders and turned him until he was facing him. He needed him to look at him—even if just for a second. One of his hands slid up to Hudson’s chin and held it firmly, lifting his face.

“But before you walk out that door, I need you to calm down a little,” Connor said quietly. “When we land in Toronto, you need to look relaxed. There might be press waiting for us. You know that, right?”

Hudson nodded, unable to hold his gaze for more than a second.

“It’s less than a three-hour flight,” Connor continued. “That’s all the time you’ve got—plus boarding—to put those fucking brilliant acting techniques of yours to work.”

A faint tremor crossed Hudson’s face.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, embarrassed by his earlier harshness.

“Don’t.”

Connor released his chin and pulled him into a firm embrace. Hudson responded immediately, wrapping his arms around Connor’s waist as if clinging to a fixed point in the middle of the chaos, holding him tight. Connor held the contact without rushing it; Hudson’s face buried itself in his neck, and his breathing, still unsteady, brushed against Connor’s skin. Connor barely turned his head and pressed a kiss to the side of his hair.

“You’re not alone,” he murmured against him. “And you never will be.”

“I’m sorry for taking it out on you,” Hudson whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“I told you not to say that,” Connor replied softly, just as quiet. “I’m not taking it to heart.”

Hudson tightened his grip around him.

They stayed like that for a few seconds more, as if they could steal one last breath before stepping back out into the world.

***

Connor hadn’t had a chance to talk to Hudson about anything that wasn’t directly tied to the current mess. It wasn’t the time, and Hudson clearly wasn’t in a place to deal with what had happened between them on top of everything else.

From the moment they’d met in the hotel lobby, Nick hadn’t stopped talking—relaying what Elena and Brad had said, rambling through possible strategies, running through possible scenarios. His words filled the air, but neither Connor nor Hudson was truly listening. They both seemed stuck inside their own heads, processing everything hours too late, trying to catch up with a reality that had shifted in the span of an afternoon.

They didn’t get a chance on the plane either. The seat Nick had secured for Hudson wasn’t near Connor’s, and the few times Connor turned to look at him, he found him with his wireless earbuds in and his eyes closed. Connor knew he wasn’t asleep. He recognized that tension in Hudson’s jaw, the stiffness in his shoulders. He was probably trying to line up the chaos of emotions before landing, bracing himself for the next scene as if an invisible camera were already rolling.

Throughout the flight, Connor felt a constant knot in his stomach, a sour anticipation he couldn’t shake. And when the plane finally touched down, that dread materialized with brutal clarity.

Hudson, on the other hand, didn’t seem surprised. As if he’d known from the start that this would be waiting for them.

“Security will be here in a couple of minutes,” Nick announced. “I requested it. They approved to avoid any incidents.”

Hudson and Connor nodded. Hudson had his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, fidgeting restlessly, biting the inside of his cheek; his lips barely moved, a subtle tell that he was fighting to keep control. Connor watched him from the corner of his eye and recognized the tension in every tiny movement.

“Huddy,” Connor said quietly.

When Hudson looked at him, Connor pointed to his own jaw, then ran his hand down his own face in a silent cue to relaxhis expression.

“You’ve got this.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if I went out alone?” Hudson asked, turning to Nick. “Wouldn’t it be worse if they saw us arriving together?”

“No,” Nick cut in firmly. “People already know you were together in Winnipeg. It doesn’t matter whether you walk out together or not.”

“It does,” Hudson insisted. “We could’ve just met there. If we arrive together, it looks coordinated.”

Nick let out an impatient breath.

“And you think those reporters are here because they’re clairvoyant? If they’re waiting, it’s because someone sold the flight information. They already know you’re coming together. If one of you walks out and the other hides, don’t you think that’d be worse?”

Hudson exhaled, long and heavy. Connor could see the panic starting to seep through the cracks. It wasn’t just about facing questions about the article. Hudson felt exposed—stripped bare. He’d never liked talking about his private life, and suddenly the whole world was dissecting something deeply intimate… and, to make it worse, something that wasn’t even true.

Hudson wasn’t just afraid of headlines. He was afraid of sending the wrong message—of a misread grimace, a misplaced glance, a single second of hesitation turning into “proof” of guilt. Of the media and paparazzi twisting any reaction into something uglier than the original story.

Connor stepped closer, not touching him, but making sure he was there. Hudson glanced sideways and shifted a few inches until their arms brushed. The contact was minimal, almost invisible to anyone watching, but it was enough to hold him upright. As if that slight friction was the only thing keeping the accumulated weight from knocking him over.

“Please remember,” Nick said firmly, making sure they were both listening. “They’re going to ask a lot of questions. Not answering at all would look evasive. So, Hudson, you respond to one. Only one. And you say: ‘The report is not true. My team will be issuing a statement and taking legal action. I will not comment further.’ Nothing else.”

Nick held Hudson’s gaze for an extra second, like he was engraving the sentence into his brain, then turned to Connor.

“You only speak if they mention you directly. And all you say is: ‘We had a schedule in Winnipeg. We have work commitments.’ Don’t add anything else.”

They both nodded.

Connor repeated the line in his head like a mantra. Don’t improvise. Don’t react. Don’t take the bait.

Beside him, Hudson inhaled deeply, his chest expanding slowly, like he was about to step onstage.

When the security team arrived, they surrounded them discreetly and guided them toward the exit. Even before they stepped into full view, the three of them could see the the flicker of camera flashes and hear the swelling murmur of overlapping voices. It was just past nine at night, and the darkness settling in made the flashes pop like artificial lightning, ready to blind.

Connor felt an almost physical urge to grab Hudson’s hand, to lace their fingers together and give him some kind of anchor. He wanted him to know he was there—that he wasn’t going anywhere. But he also knew that gesture, at that exact moment, would be gasoline on the fire.

So he kept his hands still, shoulders squared, eyes forward.

When they stepped outside, security formed a human barrier to stop the crowd from surging at them. Even so, they were shoved constantly—people pushing for space, stretching arms out, shoving microphones closer. They were completely surrounded. Nick walked between them: guiding Hudson first with a firm hand at his back, gripping Connor’s wrist with the other to make sure he didn’t fall behind. The plan was simple—Hudson would disappear first into the CRAVE car waiting a few meters ahead.

The voices of reporters, paparazzi, and a handful of fans blended into chaotic noise. No one waited their turn. No one lowered their voice.

“Hudson! Are you in a relationship right now?”

“Hudson! Did your partner know about these meetings?”

“Please keep your distance,” one of the guards kept repeating, using his body as a shield.

“No statements right now,” Nick called out without slowing down, practically dragging them along. “We will be taking legal action and issuing an official statement.”

“The chemistry we see on screen—does it continue off set?!”

“Is production aware of this controversy?”

“Was there overlap between your relationship and these rumors?”

“Do you think this scandal will help or hurt the show?”

Hudson spoke then, and Connor silently thanked the universe that his voice sounded steady.

“The article is false. My team will be taking the appropriate legal action. I’m sorry, guys, but until then I won’t be making further comments.”

More questions exploded immediately.

“When will the official statement be released?”

“Connor, can you clarify if there’s more than friendship between you and Hudson?”

“Are you completely denying the cheating rumors?”

“Why were you together in Winnipeg?”

Connor kept his eyes forward.

“We had work commitments in Winnipeg. Please wait for the official statement.”

At that moment, one of the reporters lunged at a guard, trying to push closer to Connor. The shove broke the security line for a split second. Connor stumbled, his body pitching forward. Nick barely managed to grab his arm to keep him from hitting the ground.

“Please step back!” a guard shouted.

Hudson turned at the sudden movement when Nick caught Connor. Their eyes met for a second. Connor gave him the smallest look—go. Get in the car. Don’t hesitate.

The fans’ screams tangled with the reporters’ voices, and Connor started to feel genuinely disoriented. Reaching the car was becoming nearly impossible. The security line had tightened around them, but it was still being forced back inch by inch as the crowd kept pushing forward. Questions flew from every direction, overlapping, relentless, while flashes detonated again and again, blinding them in bursts.

“Back up! Back up!” the guards yelled, pushing with their forearms to regain space.

Connor could barely distinguish faces anymore. Just lights, outstretched arms, microphones. The noise became a continuous buzz drilling into his ears.

He felt a shove from the side, and before he could react, someone—he couldn’t tell if it was a fan, paparazzi, or journalist—threw themselves against the security line. A hand reached his face. He didn’t have time to dodge it. The impact was fast and confused—he couldn’t tell if it was intentional or just part of the chaos—but he felt the immediate sting of a scratch across his right cheek. A sharp, burning line cut across his skin.

He didn’t stop.

He moved as fast as he could, guided by Nick’s firm grip on his arm and the security team forcing a path forward. The car was only a few yards away, but it felt like crossing an endless distance.

Hudson disappeared into the vehicle first. Nick stayed by the door, waiting for Connor to follow immediately. The second Connor’s feet hit the floor of the car, the door slammed shut with a solid thud, sealing off the outside world like someone had flipped a switch.

The silence inside was abrupt.

Nick climbed into the front seat, and the car pulled away.

Connor felt his heart regain its rhythm—still racing, but steady. He felt air fill his lungs again. He felt, finally, that he could breathe.

He turned toward Hudson, who was already watching him with an expression heavy with concern. Without thinking, Connor reached out his hand. Hudson took it almost instantly, like he’d been waiting for that exact gesture since the car door shut.

“You okay?” Connor asked quietly.

Hudson nodded, though his breathing hadn’t fully settled yet.

“And you?”

Connor nodded too, ignoring the persistent sting along his cheek, the hot line of the scratch that was becoming more noticeable now that the adrenaline was fading. He turned his face slightly so it wouldn’t be obvious.

He didn’t want Hudson focusing on that. Not now.

“Guys, you handled that well. Really well. It’s going to be okay,” Nick urged from the front seat, turning slightly to look at them.

Connor held Hudson’s gaze for one more second before reluctantly letting go of his hand.

***

They arrived at the Airbnb—unit 1205—in Toronto a little after ten at night. Nick was staying with them; there were three bedrooms available and, given the circumstances, it was the most sensible option.

Hudson dragged his suitcase into the same room he’d used before leaving for Montreal. Connor, meanwhile, remained standing in the middle of the living room, looking around without really seeing anything. He didn’t want the same bedroom where he’d slept with François. The sheets hadn’t been changed, and the mere thought of lying down in a space he’d shared with him felt suffocating. Though, in truth, the entire apartment carried the same memory.

“Nick, you can take the master bedroom,” Connor said, offering a brief smile.

Nick raised both hands, waving them in refusal.

“No, that’s not necessary. I’ll be fine in any other room.”

“I want you to stay in that one,” Connor insisted.

“I told you—”

“Please, take it,” Hudson cut in from behind him. “There’s another room available. Connor will be more comfortable there.”

Connor almost thanked him out loud. He turned toward Hudson, who was walking to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water. Nick didn’t argue further and finally headed to the master bedroom.

“You okay?” Connor asked.

Hudson, still facing away, tilted his head back as he drank. When he finished, he turned and nodded.

“It could’ve been worse,” he said. “I think it went okay.”

“No,” Connor clarified. “I mean… are you feeling any calmer?”

Hudson shook his head at first, then reconsidered and nodded more firmly.

“I guess the worst of it is over. What comes next, I can’t predict. It’ll be a different kind of mess.”

“It’s too late to talk to Jacob tonight,” Connor said, checking the time on his watch. “We’ll find out tomorrow. We’re shooting early.”

Hudson nodded and let out a long breath.

“Guess it’s better to rest.”

He put the bottle back in the fridge and headed toward his bedroom. As he passed Connor, he paused for a second and gently brushed his arm.

“Please get some sleep.”

Before he could walk away, Connor caught his hand and turned him to face him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice. He was afraid of pushing too hard, of adding pressure, but Hudson gave him a warm smile. The tension he’d carried at the Winnipeg hotel seemed to have eased.

“Get some rest,” Hudson repeated.

Then, under the bright light of the apartment, his eyes widened as he took in Connor’s face. He reached up, held Connor’s chin, and gently turned his head to get a better look at the scratch— a thin line streaked with dried blood.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, alarmed. “When did this happen?”

“It’s nothing serious, Huddy,” Connor tried to pull away, but Hudson held him more firmly.

“Fucking idiots,” Hudson spat, anger sharpening his voice. “Fucking vultures.”

“It was an accident,” Connor said, trying to convince himself as much as him. “It’s nothing.”

“Wait here.”

Hudson released his chin and went to his bedroom. He came back a couple of minutes later carrying a compact plastic case.

“Come on.”

He took Connor’s hand and led him into the bathroom the two rooms shared. He sat him down on the closed toilet lid, just like last time.

“This really isn’t necessary,” Connor tried again.

“Shut up,” Hudson replied—not harshly, but leaving no room for argument.

He opened the case: a small, perfectly organized first-aid kit. Connor let out a soft snort. Hudson was always prepared for everything.

Connor’s knees falling slightly apart, Hudson stepped between them. He dampened a piece of gauze with warm water and carefully wiped away the dried blood clinging to the cut.

“Jacob’s going to kill me,” Connor joked, trying to ease the tension. “First day of shooting and I show up with marks on my face.”

“If they could erase our tattoos, this will be nothing,” Hudson replied, focused. “I’m more worried that tomorrow’s makeup will irritate it or infect it.”

“Huddy, it’s just a scratch.”

“Yeah, well, there’s blood here, sir,” Hudson countered firmly.

When he finished cleaning it, he applied a bit of mild soap, gently working it over the cut. Connor couldn’t help getting lost in his face—the concentration etched between his brows, the unexpected softness of his hands, the closeness that thickened the air… and his scent. That scent. Connor clung to it like it was the only pure thing left in the middle of the chaos surrounding them.

He rested his hands on Hudson’s hips. Hudson flinched slightly at the contact, but didn’t step away.

“Thank you for worrying about me so much,” Connor murmured. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t do enough for you.”

“Sometimes I think the same,” Hudson replied—then quickly laughed when he saw the immediate panic flash across Connor’s eyes. “Why would you say something like that if you’re not ready for me to agree?”

“It’s not that I’m not…” Connor made a small pout. “I just got scared hearing you say it.”

“Yeah, well, you know it’s not true.”

Hudson leaned down to grab another piece of gauze, moving awkwardly because Connor still hadn’t let go of his hips. Patiently, he wiped away the soap, dampening the gauze over and over until the cut was completely clean.

“Sometimes I think I wouldn’t have been able to make it through everything this has meant for both of us if my co-star had been anyone else,” Hudson added, lifting his gaze to smile at him. “The universe knows what it’s doing, right? Waiting for the perfect moment to launch my career and making sure you were right there beside me. That’s the only reason I’ve made it through this shit without regrets.”

Connor felt the warmth spread through him, slow and deep, like those words had found the exact place they were meant to settle. Hudson had a good, loyal, ride-or-die kind of soul, but Connor never took that for granted, and he was glad he didn’t, because he knew he’d spend every single day making damn sure he gave back every ounce of what Hudson had given him.

He gently tightened his grip on Hudson’s hips when he applied the antibiotic ointment. It stung a little. It wasn’t serious—barely a scratch that had broken his skin—but Hudson was treating it like it was something far worse, with almost exaggerated care.

“I couldn’t have asked for a better partner to grow with,” Connor whispered, answering what Hudson had said. “And I know we don’t want people seeing us as one single unit, like some inseparable duo or like we’re the same fucking person. But if I’m going to keep growing, keep winning, then when I look beside me, I hope the person growing with me—and even outgrowing me—is you.”

Connor let out a breath, but it wasn’t exhaustion. It was gratitude, pure and steady.

“You really are my soulmate.”

“Oh, shut up.” Hudson pressed lightly on the cut and Connor hissed.

“Hey!” he protested, amused.

“You said it before,” Hudson shot back. “While I was saying ‘you’re my soulmate,’ you answered, ‘I’m not saying you’re my only soulmate.’ You turned me into one of many. You turned us into a whole soulmate family without giving me a vote.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you are my soulmate. You are.” Connor shifted his grip on Hudson’s hips so he’d look at him. “Thank you. For everything.”

“Why does that sound like you’re about to die?” Hudson finally stepped back to put the supplies away in the small kit. “You don’t have to thank me for being your friend. That’s not how this works.”

Connor stood up. From behind, he watched in the mirror the care Hudson had taken with the small wound. Hudson finished organizing the kit and lifted his gaze toward the reflection.

Their eyes met in the mirror, and neither looked away.

Several seconds passed in silence, held together only by that invisible line connecting them. Suddenly Connor felt like his heart was about to punch through his ribs. He couldn’t explain how a simple look could undo him like that. Hudson read him—just as Connor read him. They always did. And in that moment, their eyes were speaking.

There wasn’t discomfort about the kiss. Not really. There was fear, yes. Fear of having been used, of Connor having only sought relief for his own pain. But Connor saw something else in Hudson’s gaze, and from the way his pulse was racing, he was sure Hudson saw the same thing in him.

Connor shook the thought away and broke eye contact first. He wouldn’t take another step toward Hudson until he cleared things up with François. And by “take a step,” he didn’t mean kissing him again—he understood now that what he’d done to Kiley had been wrong. By taking a step, he meant maybe confessing what he felt.

And even if that seemed worse than a kiss on the surface, Connor just wanted to give Hudson a choice.

He felt like a selfish bastard. After convincing himself he would never say anything, now suddenly he wanted to. He wanted to give Hudson that option. Because deep down, a part of him whispered that doing so would be the right thing… while another, louder part screamed that it would ruin everything. Like always.

Maybe it was the way Hudson had kissed him back. It would be ridiculous to think he’d done it only to comfort him. No. Connor had felt too much for it to be reduced to that. He’d felt his tongue, their breaths tangling, the solid weight of his chest pressed against his own, the shared urgency that had nothing compassionate about it and everything desired.

Hudson had kissed him with intention. With hunger.

It hadn’t been a kind gesture—it had been a choice.

And that memory—so recent, so vivid—ignited something in Connor’s gut that he could no longer pretend didn’t exist. Because it hadn’t been one-sided. It hadn’t been an empty slip. There had been response. Pressure. Insistence. There had been seconds when the world stopped mattering and only that contact existed.

A more rational voice tried to break through: it’s too soon. Even waiting until after talking to François would still be too soon. He had only just allowed himself to recognize what he felt. How could he make a decision like that when he was still grasping the full weight of it?

But his thoughts began hammering against his skull with merciless clarity.

No. You haven’t liked Hudson for a few months. You’ve liked him from the beginning.

Since that first video call. Since the first time you met in person. Since the moment you realized you could be yourself without fear of being judged. Since you learned you could lean on him without feeling like you were trespassing on someone else’s territory. Since you ran into his arms when you felt like shit and knew he wouldn’t demand explanations.

You’ve liked him all along.

And you were selfish enough to hide it. You buried it out of fear of losing him, fear of things turning awkward, out of “respect” because he had a girlfriend… or at least that’s what you kept telling yourself. Then you started a relationship you never fully stepped into, because it was the only thing keeping you safe from those feelings. It was the anchor that kept you from crossing the line. Even if, at times, it overflowed.

You convinced yourself you were a good person. You disciplined yourself into self-deception. Yes, you loved someone else. That was real. But you never stopped feeling this for Hudson. You just locked it away in a tiny box, buried deep in your gut, where it couldn’t make a sound. And now that the arms that kept your feet planted in another life are gone—the arms that helped you control what you felt—now that that structure has cracked… you want to burn through everything and everyone.

That’s selfish. That’s unfair. To everyone. Not just Hudson—François too.

Connor closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his reflection in the mirror looked exhausted, fractured. His gaze met Hudson’s again. He hadn’t moved. He was still standing there, watching him.

Connor understood then that he wasn’t running from a romantic decision. He was confronting years of carefully constructed denial. And the most terrifying part wasn’t admitting he liked Hudson—it was admitting he always had.

“Huddy…” he whispered almost involuntarily, like the voices in his head were sending mixed signals.

His hand reached for Hudson’s waist, but Hudson slipped easily out of his reach. If Connor hadn’t been watching his expression so closely, he might have thought he imagined it.

“We need to rest,” Hudson said quickly. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.” And he walked out of the bathroom.

That night, Connor tossed and turned for what felt like hours. He shifted from one side to the other, unable to find a position that offered any real rest. He closed his eyes, opened them, flipped the pillow, sighed. He tried repeating, like a mantra, every reason going to Hudson’s room was a bad idea. He listed them carefully: the timing wasn’t right, everything was too recent, he still had to talk to François. He forced himself to remember there were bounderies.

But every time he reached that last point, the sentence pounded in his head—because Hudson had told him that this, specifically, was allowed.

Connor’s feet felt freezing cold, a persistent chill crawling up from his ankles through his calves, like the floor itself was breathing beneath the bed. He assumed that was what was keeping him awake.

With a sigh, he sat up and walked barefoot to the closet, where his still-unpacked suitcase waited. He crouched in front of it and began rummaging through half-folded shirts, carelessly rolled jeans, and the toiletry bag wedged between two pairs of sneakers.

He was looking for the thermal socks Hudson had given him for his birthday—absurdly thick, wine-colored with tiny wine-colored, dotted with tiny white stitches. They’d seemed over-the-top at the time. Now they felt necessary.

He spent more time than he meant to digging through his things, lifting clothes he already knew weren’t them, checking compartments where they were unlikely to be. Deep down he knew it wasn’t just a practical search—it was a distraction, a way to delay the direction his thoughts were heading.

He didn’t find them.

He stared at the messy suitcase for a few seconds, as if the socks might materialize through sheer insistence, then zipped it shut with a resigned motion. He went back to bed and dropped onto his back, feeling the cold creep into his feet again, spreading slowly through the rest of his body.

He tried to resist a little longer. Counted seconds. Listened to the apartment’s silence, the faint hum of the air, the distant murmur of the city at night filtering through the window.

Nothing calmed him and finally, he sat up again.

The floor was cold beneath his feet as he crossed the hallway. He stopped in front of Hudson’s door and stood there, motionless, for nearly three full minutes. Three minutes of his mind swinging back and forth between impulse and reason.

It was late. Hudson was probably asleep. He wasn’t going to wake him—that’s why he didn’t knock. He just turned the handle.

His stomach dropped to his feet when he realized Hudson had locked it.

Connor left his hand resting against the door for a second longer, feeling the solid resistance of the metal under his fingers. He understood the message immediately: Not tonight.

***

Connor woke up that morning with the distinct feeling that his head was about to split open. The alarm went off when it felt like he’d only just closed his eyes, and the exhaustion from the day before hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled deeper into his body.

He dragged himself to the bedroom mirror and didn’t like what he saw: dark circles carved beneath his eyes, a dull gaze, skin tight with lack of sleep. The scratch that ran from the base of his right eye down toward the corner of his mouth didn’t look as bad as he’d feared. It would probably fade into a faint line and disappear in a few days. For now, there was no redness around it. Hudson’s almost excessive care had paid off. Connor’s skin was sensitive—quick to flare up—but this time it hadn’t.

He wiped the sleep from his eyes with his fingers, grabbed a towel, and shuffled into the hallway, still half-asleep. As he reached the bathroom, he nearly collided with Hudson, who was stepping out fully dressed and ready for the day.

“You look like shit, baby,” Hudson said lightly.

Connor rolled his eyes at the encouragement and muttered a groggy “morning” before slipping into the bathroom.

He shut the door and went through his routine on autopilot. Brushed his teeth. Splashed his face again. Then, without thinking much about it, he stepped under the shower and let the hot water hit his back, hoping it would loosen the tightness in his head and give him some relief.

When he came out, he stopped short at the sight of Jacob walking alongside Hudson toward the living room to sit down.

“Good morning, Connor,” Jacob greeted him with a warm smile.

Connor returned it, though his body still felt heavy.

“Go get dressed. I’ll wait here so we can talk.”

Connor exchanged a look with Hudson. Hudson gave a subtle nod—hurry up, don’t make us late—so Connor did exactly that.

He hadn’t been particularly worried about whatever Jacob wanted to discuss. Sure, it might’ve been better to talk when they got back from Winnipeg, but in Connor’s mind the situation wasn’t severe enough to halt production, nor urgent enough to justify Jacob showing up that early.

But when he returned to the living room, fully dressed, his perception shifted.

He sat on the couch across from Hudson and Jacob. Jacob had brought coffee. The smell hit Connor immediately, and he thought that was exactly what he needed to quiet the pounding in his skull. He accepted the cup when it was offered.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

He held it between his hands, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. Hudson was already sipping his when Connor noticed Nick’s absence.

“Where’s Nick?” Connor asked, glancing around as if expecting him to appear from the hallway.

Hudson shook his head, lips pressing together slightly.

“He was gone when I woke up.”

Connor frowned. He would’ve preferred Nick there. Whatever Jacob was about to say, Nick would’ve been better equipped to push back, to poke holes in the argument or negotiate nuances they, exhausted and emotionally raw, weren’t in a place to push back on.

“Alright, guys.” Jacob shifted on the couch, stretching his legs slightly before letting out a weighted sigh that told Connor immediately this wouldn’t be simple. “I got a call yesterday from CRAVE’s executive board.”

Then he turned to Hudson.

“I don’t need to ask you anything, because in a way, I already know. I know you’re not that kind of person. I know you wouldn’t do something like that. And even if you had, it’s not fair for your private life to be exposed like this.” Jacob cleared his throat, aware of the contradiction in his own wording. “I realize I’m contradicting myself here… but what I’m trying to say is that’s not the point right now.”

Hudson nodded with a small, almost pout-like smile. Connor knew those words were soothing him more than he let on.

“The point is,” Jacob continued, “the board considers this relatively normal given the success of the first season and the fact that the media knows we’re shooting the second. We don’t know if this is part of a smear campaign from someone who doesn’t want the series to keep growing, but at the same time, it’s not necessarily something that’ll impact it in a major way. Do you follow?”

Hudson and Connor both nodded.

“However,” Jacob went on, “the board believes it’s necessary for you to issue a statement. I saw what happened at the airport, and it sucks—I’m genuinely upset you were exposed to that. I know you already mentioned you’d be releasing a statement, but the board wants it handled in a way that references the show as little as possible.”

“Why?” Connor asked.

“Because they consider this an isolated incident, unrelated to production. And technically, it is. They don’t want the discourse or narrative moving forward to tie the scandal directly to the series, or for the project’s name to be constantly associated with it. I know it sounds a bit naïve to think that’ll prevent headlines,” he added with a half-smile, “because they’ll still say ‘star of Heated Rivalry’ like that article did. But in your own statement, it’s best to avoid mentioning it. It’s more symbolic and strategic than anything.”

Jacob paused, looking at both of them.

“The idea is to separate the brand from the personal. Keep the conversation in the private sphere and avoid dragging production into it.”

Connor felt a sudden wave of revulsion. He knew it wasn’t Jacob’s fault; he was just delivering a corporate decision. And, on some level, he understood it. CRAVE was protecting its interests—like any company would. But it still felt like turning their backs on Hudson. Like saying: we believe you, we don’t think it’s serious… but handle it yourself.

If Connor had believed, even briefly, that CRAVE would publicly stand behind Hudson to shut this down with force, it was clear he’d been wrong.

“That’s a little hypocritical, isn’t it?” Connor shot back.

He knew his frustration shouldn’t be directed at Jacob, but it was spilling over.

“I mean, is Hudson only an emerging, phenomenal talent when he brings good press? They’re even considering this might be a smear campaign against CRAVE, but the solution is that he handles it alone? That he keeps it isolated from the series like it’s a personal inconvenience that has nothing to do with them”

“Connie…” Hudson murmured, trying to rein him in. Connor ignored him.

“I’m not surprised,” he continued, firmer now, “but it’s still fucking frustrating that when they’re supposed to back him, they go for the most convenient option. And just to be clear, Jacob, this isn’t about you. I’m pissed at the board. Because you don’t get to pick and choose which parts of a person benefit you. You don’t get to profit from someone when everything’s a success and then step aside the second there’s a problem.”

Jacob listened without interrupting, fingers laced together.

“I know,” he said finally. “And I’m sorry, Hudson. I know it sounds unfair. But at the end of the day, this is a contractual relationship. They pay you for a service, and you provide it. What happens in your private life isn’t part of that contract. They’re not your personal representatives or your image management team—they’re a company that hired you for a project. And they want to avoid, as much as possible, this scandal growing to a point where it affects the show.”

“It won’t,” Connor shot back firmly. “It won’t because it’s not true. Come on, Jacob—you know that. You know about François…” Connor felt a twist in his stomach using his almost-finished relationship as evidence. “That alone should be enough to prove nothing happened. Not with me, and definitely not with anyone else on the team. Do you honestly think Hudson would do something like that—With me or anyone else? You know him. And yeah, I know you said that at the beginning. But you can pass that along. They can relax. They don’t need to worry. A statement will be released, and this won’t escalate to the point of affecting the show.”

“Is there any change to the shooting schedule?” Hudson asked at last.

It was the only thing he’d said since Connor finished speaking. His hands gripped his coffee cup tighter than necessary, and his gaze stayed fixed on the coffee table, as if studying the wood grain was easier than stepping into the argument.

“I mean… any changes for me?” he clarified.

Jacob shook his head immediately.

“No. Not at all,” he replied, letting out a soft scoff “Like I said earlier, at this point we don’t believe this will affect the series. The schedule and filming continue as planned. You don’t need to worry about that.”

Hudson gave a small nod.

“Okay.”

That was all he said.

Connor bit his tongue to keep from jumping back in. He could’ve kept arguing, kept pointing out the contradictions, but he also knew Hudson was already carrying enough. Hudson didn’t need Connor adding more tension to the room.

Jacob stood up, smoothing his pants down in a casual gesture.

“See you downstairs at the agreed time. We’re shooting as usual today.”

***

It was the third day of shooting, and Connor was sitting at a table in a private dining room at a restaurant on Queen Street East. From the moment Nick suggested the place, Connor had thought meeting in such a busy area wasn’t the best idea— but the logistics were flawless. The room had direct access from the parking garage, so none of them had to cross the main dining area. Nick had scheduled the meeting for 1:00 p.m., and everyone arrived separately—except Connor, who came in with him. No cameras. No curious glances.

In truth, meeting somewhere crowded wasn’t inherently bad. The only real issue would’ve been someone photographing Hudson with Connor again. As if simply sharing space fed a narrative neither of them had chosen.

Nick and Brad had released the statement the day before: categorically denying the allegations and announcing legal action against both the outlet that published the article and anyone spreading false or defamatory rumors about their client. The magazine’s comment section had been on fire ever since—but so had the one under the official statement. It was a mess of conspiracy theories, unwavering support, sarcasm, and passionate defenses.

At least Connor felt a measure of relief seeing that Nick hadn’t needed to disable the comments. Most were positive. There was a general perception that the team was acting confidently. In a strange way, going straight to legal action sent a clear message—it projected certainty. The public tended to assume no one would risk involving lawyers if they had something to hide. Many thought the accusation itself didn’t warrant such a forceful response; but at the same time, they understood that attacking Hudson’s private life to damage his public image was a line that needed to be cut off immediately. A team wouldn’t look that firm if they believed they were on shaky ground.

“Do you know if he’s going to be much longer?” Brad asked Elena when half an hour had passed and everyone was present… except Hudson.

Around the table sat Elena, Nick, Brad, Connor, and both legal teams. Representing Hudson: Emma Wilson and Ethan Carter. Representing Connor: Florence Morin and Antoine Roy. The seating arrangement felt almost strategic; the lawyers had positioned themselves in an alternating pattern, as if to subtly emphasize that this wasn’t an informal chat—every word here would matter.

Since Elena had suggested a few minutes earlier that they go ahead and order to avoid further delay—especially since Connor had to be back on set by five—everyone had pretended to focus on the menu. Pages turned. Dishes were read aloud quietly. Low murmurs filled the room. But no one was thinking about food.

“I’ll call him,” Elena said, rising from her chair. “He told me they were on their way.”

Connor looked up immediately and followed her with his eyes as she stepped outside to make the call. His brow furrowed.

They were on their way.

Plural.

He wasn’t sure if he’d misheard or if his already-alert mind was exaggerating something insignificant. But he was almost certain she’d said they. That meant Hudson wasn’t arriving alone.

Connor scanned the table again, as if the missing piece might reveal itself if he stared hard enough. But everyone from the immediate team was already there. So who else would Hudson be bringing?

He stared at the menu without registering a single word. The letters blurred together like they were written in another language.

Hudson wasn’t late. Ever. If anything, he usually arrived early—even when the meeting wasn’t particularly important. He had that almost obsessive habit of not making anyone wait. Connor couldn’t stop himself from imagining something had gone wrong. Traffic couldn’t be the whole story.

He grabbed his phone almost reflexively and opened his chat with Hudson.

Huddy, where are you?

Hudson always replied quickly. Always. There was an unspoken agreement between them: messages didn’t sit unread for hours. They didn’t pile up unanswered. It was a small rule they both followed almost religiously. Connor didn’t always mind if Hudson took his time—but he knew Hudson was far stricter about it the other way around.

He waited. Checked the phone once. Then again.

Nothing.

Maybe he’s talking to Elena, he thought, trying to rationalize it.

That suspicion was confirmed when Elena came back in.

“They’ll be here in less than ten minutes,” she announced. “Traffic’s heavy. We can go ahead and order—I’ll order for them.”

“Them?” Connor asked immediately.

But Brad cut in before Elena could answer.

“I was thinking,” Brad began, resting his forearms on the table. “I think it’s necessary for Hudson to be here for this first part of the meeting. But to avoid going in circles once he gets here and to get straight to the point before we move on to the second part, we could define the course of action now that the statement’s been published. Do you agree?”

He turned slightly and inclined his head to meet Elena’s gaze. She nodded while unlocking her iPad. Connor assumed she’d start taking notes to brief Hudson as soon as he walked in.

“Alright,” Elena confirmed.

“Perfect. Florence?” Brad continued. “Do you want to walk us through what you’re thinking?”

Connor leaned back in his chair and let the low murmur of conversation move around him without fully stepping into it. The word they kept spinning in his head like a loose puzzle piece that refused to click into place. He didn’t ask again. He didn’t want to look anxious or make it obvious that the ambiguity was bothering him more than it should.

But in his mind, there was only one possible explanation.

Everyone directly involved in the legal strategy was already seated at that table: agents, attorneys, advisors. The only real absence was Hudson. And if Brad had just clarified the meeting would be split into two parts—a strategic first phase and a second segment—and Hudson wasn’t coming alone, then whoever was with him wasn’t incidental..

The logic was simple. If all the people directly involved in the legal strategy were already there, the person arriving with Hudson had to be connected to the second part of the meeting. Someone whose presence wasn’t symbolic but necessary. Someone who would shift the direction of the conversation. Someone who would reframe the narrative.

Connor kept his face neutral, but his mind had already formed the name before he could stop it.

“Of course,” Florence replied to Brad as she opened her folder. “We start from an objective fact: the magazine published an allegation of infidelity presented as a verifiable fact, not as opinion. Legally, that allows us to frame it as defamation per se, because it directly harms Hudson’s professional and contractual reputation. In simple terms, this isn’t gossip. It’s a false assertion presented as information confirmed by ‘close sources.’ That carries editorial responsibility. The outlet has a duty to verify before publishing.”

“And,” Ethan added, “the article creates quantifiable reputational harm. There’s risk of contract loss, damage to public image, and potential impact on future negotiations. That allows us to pursue compensatory damages and, depending on jurisdiction, punitive damages.”

Nick folded his hands on the table. Connor knew he’d already considered all of this—Nick had been in nonstop meetings with Elena and Brad over the last few days mapping out possible legal paths.

“What do we need to proceed formally?” Nick asked.

“First, a formal cease-and-desist letter,” Antoine said, stepping in. “Demanding immediate public retraction, removal of the content, and preservation of evidence. That last part is critical.”

Brad frowned. “And what if they’ve already taken it down since we issued the statement yesterday?”

“If they removed it after they had reasonable notice that litigation was likely, that works against them,” Antoine replied calmly.

Elena frowned slightly. Connor understood maybe half of what was being said.

“Reasonable notice?” she asked.

“Yes,” Antoine continued. “From the moment they published the article and received our statement announcing legal action, what’s called a duty to preserve kicks in. That means they’re obligated to retain any material potentially relevant to foreseeable litigation.”

Emma nodded in agreement. “If they destroyed evidence after that point, we’d be looking at spoliation of evidence. Courts can impose serious sanctions for that.”

“Like what?” Brad asked.

“Adverse inferences,” Emma answered. “A judge can presume the deleted information was unfavorable to them. There can also be fines, procedural sanctions, even limits on their defenses.”

Elena leaned back slightly, as if the information was spinning in her head and she was trying to isolate one remaining doubt.

“And if they deleted it before the statement?” she asked after a moment.

“Then context matters,” Florence said. “We’d have to prove intent. But even then, it’s rare that everything disappears. Emails leave trails. Servers keep copies. There are automatic backups, metadata, access logs. A clean, total deletion is far more complex than people think—especially in corporate environments. And if they deliberately tried to erase sensitive information, that can be more revealing than the content itself.”

A brief silence followed.

Connor didn’t speak. He was still processing, still catching up. He didn’t understand all the legal terminology, but he grasped something essential: even the attempt to hide could become evidence.

That shifted the balance of power in their favor.

“And what about the people spreading the rumor?” Connor finally asked.

Before anyone could respond, the private door with direct access from the parking garage opened quietly—almost politely—like whoever was entering didn’t want to interrupt a lecture.

Even so, every head turned at once.

Connor had his back to the door, but the subtle shift in the air was enough to make him turn.

Hudson walked in first. He held the door open with his arm extended, allowing Kiley to step through.

Connor felt acid rise in his throat before his mind fully processed it. Something fluttered violently in his chest—a mix of anticipation and dread. He already knew. He’d known since he heard the word they. He’d known Kiley would arrive with Hudson. Somehow he’d known before the visual confirmation.

But seeing her there, in person, for the first time, did nothing pleasant for him.

A sharp sting bloomed in the pit of his stomach, and he looked away just as Hudson was about to search for his eyes. His heart hammered against his ribs with disproportionate force. It was ridiculous. He was nervous—but it wasn’t guilt or remorse shaking him. It wasn’t his conscience rebelling at the sight of the girlfriend of the man he had kissed standing in front of him.

It was simpler. And uglier.

He didn’t like it. He didn’t like seeing Hudson beside Kiley anymore.

And that reaction made him feel like shit.

Because it was jealousy. Pure, childish, unjustifiable jealousy. Jealousy of someone who had never wronged him. On the contrary—she had always been kind to him. Jealousy of someone who had been in Hudson’s life for years, long before Connor ever appeared. Jealousy of a place that had never belonged to him.

It was absurd.

But his body wasn’t asking permission to react. He felt jealous that Hudson had brought her there as if she were part of the solution. Jealous of the quiet confidence with which she walked beside him. Jealous of her loyalty, her presence, her rightful place beside him.

In this situation, Connor knew he had no ground to stand on. If anything, his presence was already complicated enough. But realizing that Kiley was part of the equation—that Hudson had included her in something this delicate—made his stomach twist.

Because no matter how much he tried to rationalize it, no matter how many times he told himself he had no right, a selfish and painfully honest part of him wanted to be the one in that place.

And that was what embarrassed him most.

“Oh, Hudson, Kiley,” Brad said as they entered. “Glad you could make it.”

He gestured toward seats at the table, though Connor didn’t catch exactly where—they might as well have pointed anywhere. His gaze had locked onto a darker streak in the wood at the center of the table, suddenly far more interesting than any face around him.

“Hey, everyone,” Hudson said. “Sorry for the delay—Kiley’s flight got held up a bit, and then traffic was a mess.”

“No worries,” Nick replied evenly. “Have a seat.”

“Hi,” Kiley added as she settled beside Hudson. “Thank you all so much for this—for doing everything you can to help Hudson through this. I’m willing to do whatever’s necessary.”

Her voice was genuinely warm. There was no tension in her expression, no trace of awkwardness. And that only made Connor hate himself a little more. The more sincere she seemed, the more petty his own thoughts felt.

A flicker of irritation sparked toward Hudson—brief and irrational. It unsettled Connor even before he fully understood it. Hudson hadn’t told him. Though, if he were being honest, he should be equally irritated with Brad and Nick—they had known Kiley was coming and hadn’t mentioned it either. And yet the discomfort wasn’t directed at them. It was aimed squarely at Hudson. Which made it even more irrational.

The irritation had no solid foundation. Deep down, what unsettled him was that Hudson hadn’t warned him he was bringing his girlfriend into a space where Connor would be present—as if he needed that warning. As if there were some unspoken agreement between them that required warning each other before bringing partners into certain rooms.

Connor almost laughed at himself.

Why should Hudson have told him anything? Why would he need to anticipate Kiley’s presence if they were nothing? And yet, there it was that childish, selfish whisper in the back of his mind insisting Hudson owed him an explanation. As if he were bringing someone else into shared territory. Into a space that, in some absurd way, belonged only to the two of them. It took only a few seconds of painful honesty to realize it wasn’t anger he was feeling.

It was sadness.

Not because Hudson usually told him everything—though he did. Not because he’d forgotten to include him in some logistical detail—he had no obligation to. But because that omission confirmed something Connor didn’t want to accept.

There were places in Hudson’s life where he had no right to stand.

The sadness wasn’t dramatic or explosive. It was persistent, too persistent, clawing invisibly at the center of his chest. He couldn’t fully articulate it, but he knew it was there—sharp and steady—reminding him that whatever he had imagined as his had never truly been his at all.

Elena gave a brief summary of everything that had been discussed before Hudson and Kiley arrived, reading from her iPad the main points raised by Emma, Florence, Ethan, and Antoine. Once they were fully up to speed, she added:

“Connor had just asked what could be done about the people spreading the rumor.”

He could feel eyes on him, though he didn’t know whether they belonged to Hudson, or Kiley, or maybe both. Still, like a stubborn child, he refused to look in that direction.

“Yes. We need to distinguish here,” Florence picked up. “Individual users who merely share the original link are, to a certain extent, protected under intermediary liability lawsBut if someone adds their own false factual assertions, we can act. We can issue formal defamation notices to verified accounts, influencers, or secondary outlets that amplify the accusation as a proven fact. We’re not going after anonymous users with no financial capacity. We’re going after those who cause real damage.”

“Right,” Brad said. “That sends a clear message.”

“We can also seek injunctive relief to halt further dissemination while the substantive case is litigated,” Ethan added. “It’s not always granted, but in cases of manifest defamation and irreparable harm, it’s viable.”

A brief silence followed as everyone in the room absorbed the potential courses of action. The conversation had taken a firm direction, and a subtle atmosphere of advantage began to settle in the air. From any reasonable angle, Hudson had the upper hand. And that pleased Connor, though it didn’t surprise him in the least. From the beginning he had known the article was so misinformed, so clumsily constructed, that it would hardly withstand serious legal scrutiny. Hudson had the truth on his side, and in that setting, that was a powerful weapon.

Buoyed by that renewed sense of stability, Connor turned his gaze toward the end of the table Brad had indicated for Hudson and Kiley. Hudson was seated beside Florence, diagonally across from him. He must have already been watching him, because the moment Connor looked up, he found Hudson already watching him.

Connor held the look for only a couple of seconds—just long enough for the air between them to tighten imperceptibly—but along that same line of sight, his eyes inevitably met Kiley’s beside him.

He almost looked away immediately, as if suddenly too guilty to sustain it, but Kiley had already formed a slight sideways smile. It wasn’t entirely warm, but it didn’t look forced either. It was polite. Maybe he was imagining it—maybe it was just his own discomfort projecting—but Connor couldn’t shake the feeling that Kiley didn’t seem entirely pleased to find herself sitting across from him at that table. He returned the smile automatically, a reflex of courtesy, and quickly looked away, deliberately ignoring Hudson’s eyes, which had not stopped watching him.

“I think it’s time we address the CAA matter,” Elena said, looking at Emma.

Every head at the table turned toward Emma.

“For now, it’s a suspicion. We cannot accuse without evidence. But if, during discovery, it emerges that the source came from CAA or someone under their representation, the scenario changes. At that point we’d be talking about breach of fiduciary duty, possible tortious interference, and intentional damage to the client’s career.” Emma pressed her lips downward, lifting her shoulders slightly before letting them fall. “If CAA deliberately leaked false information, would amount to bad faith under the contract. That would allow for rescission of the contract, a claim for damages, and potentially significant compensation.”

Nick and Connor looked at each other immediately at that mention. It wasn’t obvious to the rest of the table—just a brief exchange of understanding—but they both knew exactly what it meant.

What Emma had just outlined contained the very conversation they’d had days earlier in Winnipeg, when they’d coldly analyzed the possibility of leaving CAA without destroying their careers in the process. This wasn’t just defense. It was a door. A legal pathway that could allow them to end the contract without crushing penalties, without crippling indemnitiesand above all, without being branded as difficult in the industry.

Still, the scenario was more promising for Hudson than for Connor. If a leak directly affecting Hudson could be proven, he would have solid grounds to claim material breach. Connor, who wasn’t directly implicated in the infidelity accusation, would face a harder time justifying a contractual break without it looking opportunistic.

Even so, that wasn’t what mattered most to him.

If Hudson could walk away from CAA clean, protected, and with room to rebuild his representation under favorable terms, Connor could tolerate staying longer. He could endure the strategic discomfort and wait for his own moment. Because beyond his own interests, what truly mattered to him was that Hudson not remain tied to an agency that—if the suspicions were confirmed—had been willing to sacrifice him as an interchangeable piece in a power game.

“When would be the right time to move against CAA?” Hudson asked.

Connor’s eyes traveled to him instinctively. Hudson caught his gaze within a second, as if he’d been waiting for it.

This time Connor didn’t look away immediately. He held the contact longer than was prudent—long enough to register something beyond the legal question Hudson had just asked.

Hudson was trying to read him.

There was a clear intention in his eyes, as if he were measuring Connor’s emotional state, sensing that something in him wasn’t entirely settled. Maybe his earlier irritation had been more visible than he thought. Maybe Hudson—who read him with almost unsettling precision—had already noticed that tension.

They held each other’s gaze for several long seconds, oblivious to the rest of the table, as if the low murmur of the lawyers and the distant noise of the restaurant had completely faded away. Connor felt time compress inside that silent exchange—and then his heart gave a painful jolt in his chest, a sharp reminder of the reality seated right beside Hudson. Kiley was there. His girlfriend was there.

He couldn’t hold that look as if nothing had changed. He couldn’t allow himself that luxury—not with her just inches away, not with his conscience burning beneath his skin. Heat rushed up his face. He was suddenly convinced he was too expressive, that any poorly managed emotion might betray him. He didn’t want to be a worse person than he already felt. He wasn’t going to give Kiley another reason to feel uncomfortable—or to notice what perhaps no one else had seen yet.

So he broke eye contact awkwardly, dropping his gaze to the table as though concentrating on something trivial.

“When we have documentary evidence,” Antoine replied. “Not before. Filing suit without solid proof exposes us to a countersuit for defamation or wrongful termination.” He sighed, bracing his hands against the edge of the table and pushing his chair back a few inches. “The strategy would be as follows: first, immediate action against the magazine; second, legal control and warning to relevant amplifiers; third, thorough investigation through discovery; and finally, if the chain of leaks points to CAA, we proceed against them on both contractual and tort grounds.”

“And with that, what’s the probability of success?” Elena asked, setting her iPad aside and leaning her elbows on the table.

“High against the magazine,” Ethan said. “If they can’t substantiate their source. Conditional against CAA, depending on the evidence.”

“Perfect,” Elena replied, then turned to Nick. “Given the time—and that we should eat before closing this meeting—I think we can move to the next part.”

“Oh. Yes…” Nick said, glancing briefly at Connor before avoiding his eyes. “Kiley?”

“Yes?”

“This is where we’re going to need your help.”

“Of course.”

“If the rumor hinges on alleged infidelity with Connor, the most effective strategy isn’t to keep denying it,” Nick began in a measured tone, “but to show a dynamic that contradicts the narrative. We’re not talking about a press conference or a formal appearance. Quite the opposite—we’re thinking something ordinary.”

“What exactly?” Kiley asked.

“A casual outing. The three of you. Go out to eat somewhere it’s not overly obvious you’ll be seen—or somewhere that, without forcing it, your presence might become public,” Brad explained. “If it’s too obvious, it loses impact. People will think it’s staged.”

Connor felt as if Nick and Brad had taken turns punching him in the gut.

His eyes remained fixed on the table, on the neat line of folders aligned with the edge of the wood, but he had to slide his hands under the table to hide the faint tremor running through them. A sudden wave of nausea rose in his stomach. He knew it was the fastest and most efficient way to kill the rumors—but that didn’t make the weight disappear. If anything, it redistributed it.

It wouldn’t relieve pressure from Hudson. It would simply redirect scrutiny—inevitably toward him.

And then there was the hardest part to admit: Connor could no longer imagine an outing with the three of them the way it used to be. Without fractures. Without this invisible tension pulsing in his chest. What had once felt natural now seemed like a staged performance he wasn’t sure he could pull off. He didn’t know if he could fake normalcy without something in his expression giving him away.

“There will always be people who call it staged,” Elena said calmly. “But the majority reacts to what they see. If you look comfortable, if you behave as usual, the narrative deflates on its own.” She lifted her shoulders lightly. “And if the noise continues afterward, Hudson could do something simpler—though I understand it’s more delicate. A casual Instagram post. Nothing grand. Just a photo with Kiley making it clear the relationship is fine. Or even a photo or short video of the three of you together. From what I understand, you’ve traveled together before—there’s enough material to show continuity rather than reaction.”

“And you, Connor,” Elena added, looking directly at him, “could interact naturally. A comment. A shared story. Reinforce that there’s no tension, nothing hidden.”

Connor finally looked up at Hudson, and he couldn’t tell what his own eyes revealed—because for the first time since entering the room, Hudson’s gaze faltered. There was the faintest hesitation—barely perceptible—and then he broke eye contact.

That was enough to make Connor’s heart lodge in his throat.

“If that would help Huddy…” he said, feeling each word scrape against the inside of him.

He looked at Kiley. Her expression was neutral, impossible to decipher—neither open nor closed, simply controlled, as if she were containing any emotion that might betray her in front of the table. Connor saw no hostility in her face. But there was no warmth either.

“Yes. I’ll do it,” he added at last, shifting his gaze toward Nick when Hudson failed to meet it again. “I guess that’s… still inside my boundaries.”

Hudson snapped his head toward Connor, as if that single phrase told an entire story only the two of them understood. Hudson’s eyes had always been expressive—just as expressive as Connor’s—and in that brief second their gazes locked, Connor hoped Hudson would understand.

That no, it wasn’t actually inside his boundaries. But he would bend anyway. Because it seemed like using Connor as bait was the solution to everything.

Chapter End Notes

The last few chapters have been from Connor’s POV, but Hudson will be back in the next one.

I just want to say thank you — and I’m sorry if I sound like a broken record about this — but thank you so much for all the love you’ve given this story. I’m still in shock.

Chapter 17: The End of Us

Chapter Notes

Hello!
We’re back with Hudson’s POV. Some scenes are a bit shorter this time because it didn’t make sense to expand them from his perspective when they were already clear in Connor’s POV, so you’ll only see a few specific moments from those scenes.
I’ll leave some more comments at the end.

Vancouver – A few days ago

Ever since Hudson landed at the Vancouver airport, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Connor. Which was fucked up, because he had come to Vancouver to finally see Kiley and talk to her, after confessing in that phone call — the one that had weighed heavily on her—that she knew exactly how his body reacted to Connor. He should be worried about that, and he was, he really was; maybe he needed to rethink his priorities, because he couldn’t just be shitting himself over facing his girlfriend — who he wasn’t even sure was still his girlfriend — and at the same time keep replaying his best friend in his mind.

Connor had sent him a message in the middle of the night. Hudson had read it off the lock screen, but he was so pissed he didn’t want to reply. What the hell was he supposed to do? Have a conversation with Connor while he was still breathing like he’d just fucked his boyfriend all night? Was he supposed to talk to him, in the middle of the goddamn night, about something Connor hadn’t thought was important to Hudson when it actually mattered?

Hudson was angry — but not just about the decision Connor had made in that meeting. He was angry because Connor, maybe for the first time, had put François before him. Not just for not showing up at the hotel room to talk to him, not just for not answering his messages, but because Hudson had tried to make it clear in that meeting that he didn’t agree with it, and Connor had simply caved, ready to sell his soul just to hold on to a shitty relationship. On top of that, he was pissed because Connor had tried to kiss him and then run off with regret practically dripping off him. And even that hadn’t been reason enough to reach out sooner. The way Hudson saw it, that was something they needed to talk about, wasn’t it?

For Hudson, this wasn’t new when it came to Connor, because it wasn’t the first time that, in a moment of vulnerability, he’d gone looking for some kind of physical comfort. It had started when sleeping together and holding each other became more frequent, especially on the days Connor argued with his boyfriend. Hudson didn’t mind; on the contrary, he liked feeling the warmth of Connor’s body next to his while they slept. He liked breathing in the citrus scent of tangerines that seemed to cling to his hair and skin. He enjoyed the rhythm of his breathing, even his snoring on the days he was too exhausted. Sleeping with him felt comforting, almost necessary.

Maybe it was the second time they’d crossed that line.
It was probably the second time they’d gone beyond just sleeping together. The first had been that time at his apartment, when Hudson had comforted him because Connor had argued with François. And just two days ago it had happened again, and once again, it had been because of François.

Hudson wondered if maybe it wasn’t Connor like some kind of emotional vampire, but him — taking advantage of Connor’s vulnerability just to keep him that close.

The fact that Connor had prioritized François made Hudson’s stomach churn in the most selfish, childish way imaginable, even though it had been the right thing to do. He was his boyfriend, after all. Expecting Connor to choose him instead of going to talk things through with his boyfriend and then, after hours of talking, just fucking like that was supposed to fix everything. But he couldn’t stop his blood from boiling at the thought of François acting like he had a right to Connor’s body. Hudson wanted to grab Connor by the shoulders and tell him to open his damn eyes. Connor was so pure, so loyal, so bright, that he hadn’t even realized he’d been fading, that for months he’s been going in circles, stuck in the same spot. Having the same arguments over and over again — so much so that he didn’t even have to tell Hudson what they were about anymore. Because it was always the same shit.

Hudson wanted to call him, or at least text him; his hands itched with the need to grab his phone and tell him he had flown to Vancouver, taking advantage of the few days off he had. But that would mean saying: I wanted to take a night flightbecause I thought you’d be overwhelmed and I wanted to spend the day with you. But it wasn’t possible because Connor just didn’t show up.

And just as Connor had decided to prioritize François, it was necessary — especially right now — for Hudson to prioritize Kiley. He would have almost a week — a week to talk to her and try to fix what had been broken; not to convince her to get back together with him — in case, for her, it was already over, but almost a week to be honest with her and honestly hope she wouldn’t hate him.

When Hudson arrived at the apartment he shares with Kiley, Gizmo greeted him at the door. The small cat moved gracefully between his legs and rubbed his head against his pant leg. Hudson crouched down, scratched behind his ears, and then picked him up as he stood. Kiley was sitting on the living room couch, the TV on and staring at him in disbelief.

Hudson felt like someone had driven a dagger straight into his chest. Kiley was wearing her pajamas, which meant she hadn’t gone to work; her blonde hair was tied up in a messy high bun, several strands slipping loose from the elastic. But what hit Hudson the hardest was the look on her face: dark circles under her eyes, pale skin, and even from a distance, lips that were visibly cracked.

“Hey,” Hudson said, barely above a whisper, suddenly feeling stupid because for the first time in years he didn’t know how to address her, because he was almost incapable of holding her gaze, yet he felt like it was the very least he could do for her.

“What are you doing here?” Kiley’s response wasn’t surprise, but pure, physical annoyance. She stood up, tossing the cushion she had between her legs aside, and crossed the living room in long strides, heading into the bedroom and slamming the door behind her.

Hudson sighed. Gizmo jumped out of his arms and walked straight to the bedroom, sniffing a little under the door. Hudson dropped his suitcase and backpack beside the couch and sank into it. His body sprawled out, legs spread, head resting against the backrest. He dragged both hands over his face, rubbing hard.

He hadn’t expected Kiley to welcome him with open arms; she hadn’t answered his calls or text messages in days. But maybe he’d hoped she’d at least be willing to talk. To yell at him. Even to hit him — whatever she needed. Seeing her so wrecked made him feel like a miserable, evil human being.

Hudson didn’t want to pressure her. It had to be awful for Kiley to see her boyfriend of years again, knowing he’d slept beside her more than once while having wet dreams about someone else. And not just anyone — his best friend: he person his girlfriend had welcomed into her home, defended, never once suspecting he could have feelings for him.

He thought maybe the best thing would be to leave, to go to a hotel and wait until, sometime during the days he had off before filming resumed, Kiley wanted to see him. But camping outside her bedroom door didn’t seem healthy for either of them. Hudson thought that was the solution, but more than two hours passed and he still couldn’t get off the couch; his forearm rested over his eyes as he tried to gather enough strength to leave. Because he didn’t want to.

Then he felt the weight of someone sitting beside him. It wasn’t Gizmo — it was the weight of a person. His heart pounded so hard he thought he might throw up. He didn’t move his arm from his eyes; suddenly he felt terrified of facing her, of her asking questions he was scared shitless to answer. He was afraid of being honest and destroying the woman he loved — because yes, he loved her, but maybe not in the same way anymore.

—I tried to think of every possible explanation… theories, to be exact —Kiley began, and Hudson suddenly felt like he wasn’t breathing; he still wasn’t looking at her—. I tried to convince myself that everything you’d lived through while filming the first season had confused you, that maybe you were still inside your character and that I just needed to be patient, to wait for time to pass and for you to become yourself again, to come back to me like you always do —Kiley’s voice broke, and Hudson moved his forearm away from his eyes. He shifted on the couch so that his body faced her. A knot formed in his throat and his eyes burned when he saw her crying. Tears slipped down her cheeks and she didn’t wipe them away; she seemed comfortable exposing her vulnerability. Kiley was sitting sideways on the couch, her legs crossed and her hands clasped together, her fingers twisting in her lap.

—Ki…—Hudson started, but she didn’t let him continue.

—I’m not stupid —she said— I know you better than anyone in this world, no one, not even Connor can look me in the eyes and tell me he knows you better than I do —Kiley hiccupped through her tears— You have so many friends, babe. You have so many people around you and I had never felt threatened by that. You’ve always been so free, you’ve never been afraid to be yourself because between you and me there has always been an unbreakable bond. It didn’t matter who came along, it didn’t matter what happened, it was always you and me. —Kiley smiled sadly and her face twisted as she fought back a sob she was desperately trying to keep from breaking out into anguished cries— But then he showed up… and you… you just started orbiting around him.

“What do you mean?” Hudson asked, frowning. He knew the question was stupid and unnecessary, that he was digging into Kiley’s wound by forcing her to say things that would only hurt her more. He wasn’t stupid either. After realizing how he felt about Connor, there was no need for Kiley to say anything else, so he hurried to add, “No, forget it, it’s not—”

“We stopped having dates, just you and me,” Kiley cut in, ignoring his attempt to stop her. “We turned into some kind of trio going on dates. Fun? Sure. But they weren’t ours anymore. Connor was always there.”

“Not always,” Hudson tried to defend himself.

“Do you call 85%, maybe 90%, ‘not always’?” Kiley scoffed. “Our trips suddenly revolved around him too.”

“He always went with his boyfriend,” Hudson interjected, a little desperate, though aware he needed to shut up.

“I don’t give a shit!” Kiley shouted, and Hudson flinched. He lowered his gaze and nodded, knowing he had to let her speak and keep quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Hudson said.

“What I’m trying to say,” Kiley continued, this time controlling her tone, “is that it stopped being important to you to make plans as a couple, because it seemed like if Connor was there, then everything was fine, but…” She made a strained sound in her throat, as if the knot was too big to swallow. “What about me?”

Hudson couldn’t hold back anymore. He couldn’t wrap his head around how badly he had hurt Kiley. They had been together for so long; she supported him when he was nobody, stood by him through the worst moments and some of the best. And he couldn’t stop thinking that when his life had finally reached its peak, he had simply turned his back on her. Tears slipped down Hudson’s face; he wasn’t looking at Kiley — he couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on her legs as he wiped one tear after another while she continued.

“I watched every fucking video, every interview, everything you appeared in and…” Hudson finally looked up at her. She was staring at him, and he was struck by her red eyes and the tears still soaking her face. “You’re so into him.” She let out something close to a laugh, but then covered her face with her hands.

Hudson moved quickly, shifting onto one knee on the couch and wrapping his arms around her — and that was all Kiley needed. Her sobs broke loose. Her body trembled under his embrace. He hurried to stroke her head, kiss her hair, run his hand along her back.

“I’m sorry, Kiley. I’m so fucking sorry,” he said, crying too.

They stayed like that for at least three minutes. Then she pulled away, not unkindly — she just needed space. Hudson sat back down in the same position as before. She looked at him for a few seconds before saying:

“And I foolishly hoped that when I said that last sentence, you’d be able to tell me it’s not true.” Hudson’s lips trembled and he couldn’t hold her gaze. “Can you tell me what you really feel?”

“No, I don’t want to do this, not now,” he said without looking at her.

“I want to know. Don’t you think I at least deserve that?”

“Kiley…” His voice came out in a whisper, but he was desperately begging her not to ask him that.

“Please?” she said with a faint smile.

Hudson tried to figure out how to handle this, because he didn’t want to lie to her — and he shouldn’t, because Kiley already knew. So trying to soften it would be pointless.

“I didn’t know,” he began, sniffing and wiping his tears. “I don’t want you thinking I knew and hid it from you. I didn’t realize it until we had that call.”

“You weren’t aware you were dreaming about him?” Kiley asked, genuinely incredulous.

“No, I mean, yes,” Hudson stumbled over his words. “I knew about one of them, at least,” he said, nodding, remembering that day in Paris. “But, like you, I thought that… I’m not sure now, I think I thought I was just mixing things up.” He struggled to find the right words.

“So you didn’t know you like Connor?” Kiley pressed.

“No,” Hudson whispered. “I’m sorry.” He looked at her. “I’m so sorry for hurting you, I’m so fucking sorry for putting you through this, but…” He couldn’t finish.

“Tell me.”

Hudson took a deep breath and let it out through his nose.

“I like Connor,” he finally said, feeling something heavy drop from his chest, letting him breathe a little easier. “And I like him a lot. I’m so sorry.”

Hudson lowered his head and this time it was his turn to cry desperately. He hated himself so much; hated having to have this conversation with Kiley and hurt her even more. But there was no point in lying to her, no point in pretending nothing was happening. And he hated himself for being the kind of person who crosses the line, who can’t just build something beautiful with his best friend without falling for him. But he hadn’t meant for it to happen. Hudson had many friends — friends he was incredibly close to and had shared so much with, but never — not once — had he liked any of them. Connor was different.

Kiley raised her hand and wiped Hudson’s cheeks, then made him lift his gaze.

“Are you going to tell him?”

Hudson’s heart stopped, because his brain couldn’t process what was happening: the fact that his girlfriend was asking whether he was considering confessing his feelings to someone else. Because if she was asking that, it meant she was truly ending everything. Even though they’d once had a conversation where they agreed — in a way — that they could see other people, experiment if they needed to, for the sake of the relationship, neither of them had ever done it. And somehow Hudson knew Kiley wasn’t considering that now.

“How can you just ask me something like that?” Hudson was a little angry at the situation, at the fact that Kiley was being too gentle with him. “How can you just sit here, cry, and then somehow try to comfort me?”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” she said.

“No, of course I won’t,” Hudson said, a little desperate.

“Why not?” Kiley asked.

“Kiley!” Hudson’s voice came out too loud, but she didn’t flinch. “Can you just… I don’t know… yell at me, tell me what a piece of shit I am, hit me? Do whatever you have to do, but don’t force yourself to be like this, because you’re killing me.”

“Why would I?” she said. She stood up and walked across the living room straight into the bedroom.

Hudson was left staring blankly, not understanding anything Kiley was doing. He followed her with his eyes until she disappeared into the room. At that moment, his phone vibrated in his pocket; he pulled it out only to see messages from Connor, one after another. He didn’t even look at them; with tears and snot running down his face, he wasn’t exactly in any state to read Connor’s texts while his girlfriend was breaking up with him.

Hudson set the phone aside and, just as he was about to go after her, Kiley walked back into the living room. She had her phone in one hand and the other clenched into a fist; using her index finger to tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear. She sat down next to Hudson again, in the same position as before. He watched her, completely unable to make sense of what was happening.

“Do you remember that time you asked me if it bothered me that you and Connor were wearing matching bracelets?” Kiley asked.

Hudson felt his stomach tighten. That damn bracelet — the one he and Connor had decided to buy — had set off a chain of events that had been waiting for the perfect moment to explode. He’d already lost count of how many times that bracelet had come up in conversation.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“I told myself I couldn’t be mad about it,” she shrugged. “It didn’t really bother me, because matching tattoos are way deeper than a fucking bracelet.” She smiled, and it made Hudson sick every time he saw her do it, because he knew she was forcing herself to be okay for his sake. “And then, when I was going through your things because I wanted you to leave the apartment when you got back”—she lowered her gaze—“ I started understanding a lot of things.”

“What do you mean?”

“This.” Kiley opened her hand, and there it was — the bracelet he and Connor had bought that day at Peoples: the burgundy braided band with the white gold plate engraved “Hollanov – HudCon.” But next to it were the remains of colorful beads and letters spelling out the same words: the remains of the bracelet a fan had given him and Connor, the one that had broken — the one he’d never been able to throw away. The same day it broke he’d slipped it into his jacket pocket and, when he got home, just put it away.

“I… uh…”

“How couldn’t you just throw away the broken one when you already had a new one that obviously isn’t going to snap?”

Hudson had nothing to say. Even back then, he hadn’t known why he’d kept it. Even then, Connor had joked, “Is this a sign?” but Hudson had just put it away. Because it had been one of the first things he and Connor wore matching, because it meant something, and throwing it out felt like throwing away part of what they meant to each other.

Kiley took Hudson’s hand; he didn’t resist. She placed the broken bracelet pieces in his palm and closed his hand into a fist so the colorful beads wouldn’t fall. Then she lifted his wrist slightly and fastened the burgundy bracelet with the white gold plate around it.

Hudson looked at Kiley, disbelief written all over his face, just in time to see another tear slide down her cheek. He couldn’t form a single word.

“I don’t doubt that you love me,” Kiley began. “But you and I have talked about this so many times; we know our love has evolved over all these years and that we’ve been so deeply in each other’s lives that, I don’t know, maybe at some point we started taking each other for granted.”

“That’s not true,” Hudson said.

“Yes, it is,” she replied. “I allowed a lot of things and you allowed others. I don’t want you to stay in a relationship with me out of fear of hurting me, out of fear that I might suddenly hate you for the rest of my life. I don’t want you to feel obligated to be loyal to me because I was there when you needed me most or when you had nothing.” She said it while her hand gently cupped Hudson’s cheek. “You don’t owe me anything. Everything I did, I did because I love you. because that’s my love language: supporting you, standing by you, giving you a push when you need it, holding your hand if the road suddenly twists and you’re about to fall.”

Hudson felt like it would hurt less if someone gutted him alive. Kiley was simply too good for him. And he hadn’t just looked the other way during their relationship and hurt her — he had also cheated on her. Because that loyalty she was talking about might have existed physically, but Hudson wasn’t innocent anymore. He hadn’t been since he let Connor take up too much space in his life because that was how he felt whole. He hadn’t been loyal since Connor had become his safe place. He had cheated on her because everything in him revolved around Connor. And then it hadn’t just been emotions — his body had started responding to Connor too. Hudson had been unfaithful the moment he woke up hard and jerked off thinking about his best friend. Even if it hadn’t been intentional before, from that moment in the Paris bathroom on, he had failed her.

“I’m not with you because I owe you something; that’s not how relationships work, or at least not how ours does,” Hudson said, calmer now, tears falling only occasionally. “I love you. I really do.”

“Does it make you feel whole?” Kiley asked. “No,” she corrected herself. “Is it a love you feel will still make you happy ten years from now?”

“Ki…”

“Our love evolved, and that’s okay,” she said. The tears had stopped and her voice sounded steadier. “But evolving doesn’t always mean it’s enough. And I’m so sorry that I can’t, this time, consider letting you explore what you feel for Connor while I wait for you to figure it out.” She let out a sad laugh.

“I’m not asking you to do something like that. I’ll never tell him that—”

“Because I feel like this time,” she cut him off, “you’re not coming back.” Her lips trembled. “I’ve been hating you these past few days,” Kiley said. “No — I thought I hated you because I had to figure everything out on my own, and it was hard as hell to process. I didn’t want to see you. I thought if you just disappeared, it would be easier for me, but…” She took a breath, trying not to cry again. “When I saw you, I realized you’re still someone I want in my life.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think we’re ending today, love.” Kiley bit her lower lip so Hudson wouldn’t see it trembling. “I think this is where our story ends.”

Hudson didn’t say anything right away, because the breakup hit him like a blow. It hurt — it hurt like hell — but at the same time he felt something in his chest loosen slightly, as if something unbearably heavy had been sitting there, and he hadn’t realized it had been keeping him from breathing until now.

“I want you to stay in my life and I want to stay in yours,” Kiley continued when he didn’t respond. “I want to keep supporting you, and I want you to do the same for me. We grew up together.” This time her smile was genuine. “You’re part of me, just like I’m part of you. I know it’ll be hard at first. I don’t even know if it’ll be possible right now, because if I’m completely honest, I can’t say I’ll be the friend you run to when you fight with Connor and—”

“This isn’t funny, Kiley,” Hudson cut in. “And I already told you I’m not going to tell him anything.”

“I’m not breaking up with you so you can sit around crying over what could’ve been and never go for it,” she shot back, firm. “I love you and I value you enough to let you go. I’m not saying you have to do it right now, but staying silent isn’t who you are. That’s not you. And don’t tell me it’s because you’re scared of losing him or something like that.”

“He has a boyfriend, Kiley,” Hudson snapped. “He has a boyfriend. I’m not going to tell him anything, and I can’t even believe this is happening — this moment where my girlfriend—”

“Ex-girlfriend,” Kiley tried to joke, but Hudson shot her an annoyed look that made it clear this wasn’t the time.

“I never expected to be in this moment where you’re advising me to confess my feelings to someone else.”

“Do you think this is easy for me?” Kiley said. “I spent days hating you, feeling like I’d wasted years of my life with you for it to end like this. I really thought I hated you. I wasn’t eating. I couldn’t sleep. I read your messages and wanted to reply just to wish you the worst—” Her tone was bitter. “But at the same time I knew I didn’t hate you, because I didn’t answer. I kept thinking that if I did, it would be worse than staying silent. Because I didn’t want to give you problems in the middle of filming. I didn’t want it to affect your work. I decided to break up with you the same day we had that call, but I just didn’t want to add that weight on you at that moment. I knew I didn’t hate you when I was still worried about you.”

Hudson absorbed her words without being able to say anything. He didn’t feel worthy of that kind of love; he didn’t think Kiley was being fair to herself. He wanted to tell her that if she hated him, it would make things easier; that if she threw him out of the apartment right now, he’d feel like she was doing the right thing. But that was selfish too, because Hudson wanted all that rage aimed at him, just so he could feel less like a complete piece of shit.

Kiley wasn’t like that. She was too good for it. And deep down, Hudson didn’t want someone like her carrying around feelings that would only rot her from the inside. Wanting Kiley to hate him was, in a twisted way, just wanting her to still feel something intense for him. Because after all, when you hate someone that much, it’s because you still care.

So maybe it was better that Kiley was acting this way — being as good as she had always been — so that Hudson would suffer for what he did; so that every time he remembered what he’d done and how she responded, his chest would burn from knowing he hurt her. Kiley’s response left Hudson feeling like there was no blood left in his veins.

“Hey,” Kiley said, “remember how we used to play ‘who loves who more’?” Hudson raised an eyebrow, confused. “Well, I think I won.”

“Are you going to keep doing this?”

“I’m just trying to keep this from being a breakup that hurts more than it has to,” Kiley sighed. “I want to avoid what’s coming next. I know you, and I know the part is coming where you tell me you love me, but it’s not the same anymore. I want to avoid you telling me exactly what made you like him so much. I want to avoid all the details, because you’re not the kind of person who stays quiet — you say everything. That’s why I’ve been steering this conversation.” She smiled. “Let me have this for now. Let me win today. And yes, even if you don’t love me the same way anymore, I’m sorry if this is heavy for you, but I have to say it: I do love you. I love you as much as before and in the same way. But as much as I love you, I love myself more, and I realized I was betraying myself by allowing certain things. And because I love myself that much, I couldn’t stay with you knowing what you feel for him is stronger than what you feel for me.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“What, are you going to tell me now that you love us both the same?”

“I never said I love him.”

“But you love him!” Kiley shot back. “Even if there’s nothing romantic between you right now, you love him all the same. And I don’t want to hear you say it, even though I’m the one saying it” Kiley stood up. “I don’t want to know what made you stop loving me the same way.”

“No,” Hudson rushed to say. His heart ached. Everything was spilling over, and he knew he wasn’t handling this well. He stood up and went to her; he took her hands and she drew in a shaky breath, letting it out slowly as she tried to hold back tears. “It has nothing to do with you, Kiley. You’re wonderful, you’re the most beautiful woman I know, you’re the most incredible person I’ve ever loved. I’m grateful for every moment with you. I’m grateful I got to love you for so long. I just—”

“I told you I don’t want to hear it,” she said at last, giving in to tears again. “Please?”

Hudson’s chin trembled as his mouth crumpled at the pain reflected on Kiley’s face. He hated himself so much for hurting her, but at the same time he couldn’t handle this in a way that would send the wrong message. Only now — after everything Kiley had said, after talking about ending their relationship — did Hudson fully understand what the past few years had really been. He had been such a hypocrite telling Connor he doubted he loved François, that maybe he was just used to being with him. And now that he realized he was in the same position, he understood that being used to someone doesn’t mean you don’t love them anymore. Because he had just realized he was used to being with Kiley — but that didn’t mean he didn’t love her. It just wasn’t the same anymore.

“Forgive me,” Hudson whispered.

Kiley nodded and stepped closer. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him into a hug, resting her face against the center of his chest. Hudson wrapped his arms around her tightly and held her for several seconds before she gently broke the embrace. She didn’t step away; she only pulled back enough to look at him.

“I know that with time we’ll be able to be friends again,” she said with a sad smile. “I want that. I don’t know how long it’ll take us to get there. But I want you to stay in my life.”

“Me too,” Hudson said.

Kiley rose onto her toes and reached his lips. It was a sweet kiss at first, but she let go of his waist, cupped his face, and deepened it. Hudson responded for the first few seconds, then took her face in his hands and gently pulled back, trying not to make it obvious. He looked at her for a few seconds and pressed a short kiss to her lips.

“I love you,” Hudson whispered.

“I love you more,” Kiley whispered back. “I told you — I won.”

***

Three days had passed since Hudson and Kiley ended their relationship. Hudson had been staying in the guest room ever since Kiley told him it would be better to pack his things. She needed space. She didn’t want to keep seeing his stuff around the apartment, and she didn’t want him coming back after filming, either. She couldn’t handle the anxiety of waiting for him, didn’t want to count down the days until she’d see him again. Kiley told him the best thing for her — and maybe for him too — was that once he moved his things out, they’d go no contact.

Hudson took every request like a bullet to the chest, but he accepted it. The apartment they were renting was under Kiley’s name. After the show took off, Hudson had bought his own apartment downtown — but he was renting it out. He had insisted that they move there when he bought it, but she didn’t want to; she wanted to keep their life “as normal as possible.” Back then, Hudson had told her having their own place was normal — that it was one of the things they’d planned as a couple. But Kiley insisted that if they were going to move somewhere that was theirs, it had to be when she could contribute to buying it too. They’d had a small argument about it at the time, but Hudson had given in, considering the place he’d bought wasn’t exactly modest and that, for Kiley, suddenly leaving a small, cozy space was just another added pressure on top of everything going on in her life back then.

Right now he couldn’t move his things into that condo, so he was trying to figure out how to get them out of the apartment without making things harder for Kiley.

On the other hand, he had refused to answer Connor’s messages. He was still mad at him — in some way he was — though not with the same intensity. He knew Connor had to be going through a complicated moment ever since he’d given in to CAA’s absurd demand, and he knew that sooner or later they’d have to talk. About everything.

Connor wasn’t a kid. He knew what he was doing. But he also knew Connor had this sort of savior complex: he felt responsible for making everyone’s lives better; he tries to keep the people he loves from suffering while selling his own soul in the process. It pissed Hudson off so much that Connor never put himself first, that he wouldn’t say no to things that were clearly hurting him. Just thinking about it made his insides twist. And on top of that, there was an extra weight every time he remembered Connor was doing all of it for his boyfriend.

Connor was such a sensitive person that he has to be handled carefully. You can’t just barge in and try to force him to see things; you couldn’t approach him without being assertive in the right way, because you’ll only scare him off and make him feel like an even worse person. So Hudson preferred to wait until his anger cooled down before talking to him.

But he also hadn’t answered his messages because, after breaking up with Kiley, talking to Connor while still sharing that space with her made him uncomfortable now. It made him feel guilty. He couldn’t picture himself replying to Connor, having a back-and-forth conversation while Kiley walked into the room. Or at least that’s what he told himself, because he hadn’t replied even when she was at work. Hudson knew that if he talked to Connor, Connor would instantly realize something was off, and he didn’t want to have to explain it — but he didn’t want to lie to him either. It was easier to pretend he was just avoiding him; that was better than lying.

Hudson had come to Vancouver to fix things with Kiley. Among other things. Hudson never told Connor what had happened with Kiley. How the hell would he say it? What would he even tell him? She doesn’t want anything to do with me because she realized my dick was hard because I was dreaming about you? She doesn’t want to talk to me because she knows I feel something for you? No. Hudson wasn’t going to tell him that — but he didn’t want to lie either. Avoiding it, for now, was the best option. So when Connor eventually realized his time in Vancouver hadn’t fixed anything, the questions would start piling up, and there would come a point when Hudson would have to give in and, in order not to lie, he’d have to tell him how he felt. And that terrified him.

One more day, he decided. He wouldn’t answer his messages.

That day, Kiley came home from work relatively early and helped him finish packing his things. They did it in silence; in fact, they hadn’t talked much over the past few days, once the worst of it had settled. Suddenly everything felt strange. He didn’t regret the decision, because he felt that if they’d stayed together like that, getting Kiley back as a steady part of his life would’ve been impossible. And maybe that was selfish as hell: practically forcing his girlfriend of over six years to end their relationship because he liked someone else — and still being selfish enough to want her in his life. But it comforted Hudson a little to know she wanted that too, even if not right now.

By nightfall, all of Hudson’s things were fully packed and boxed. Kiley had offered to make dinner, but Hudson needed to keep himself busy to avoid losing his mind between the sudden awkwardness hanging over them and the constant thoughts about Connor, so he said he’d take care of it.

Thinking about Connor made Hudson’s chest tighten. He knew Connor was just as desperate to talk. Hudson couldn’t remember a time when they’d gone this long without speaking; they talked almost every day — basically every single day. And the silence between them was driving him insane, making him restless. But at the same time, he convinced himself it was fine, that it was the right thing to do, because that codependency he had with Connor shouldn’t be what steered his thoughts. So he’d rather stay busy than let Kiley cook dinner and use going for a walk as an excuse to finally call Connor.

He was in the kitchen and decided to make something that would take long enough to keep him from suffocating under the noise in his head; he chose baked pasta.

He was at the fridge pulling out vegetables for the sauce when Kiley appeared at the kitchen entrance.

“I know I’ve been difficult these past few days,” she said.

Hudson grabbed the vegetables and pushed the fridge door shut with his hip. He frowned at her before answering.

“Difficult because you want space so you can feel okay without me hovering around?” He let out a short nasal laugh. “I’m leaving tomorrow, Ki.” He set the vegetables on the counter and turned all his attention to her. “I don’t know if I’ll go to a hotel — It’d be weird staying in a hotel in Vancouver — but I promise that when you get back from work tomorrow, I won’t be here anymore.”

He didn’t have to look at her for long to know that hurt her just as much as it hurt him — maybe more. And she didn’t like the idea of him walking out of the home they’d shared for so long like some kind of criminal either.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said finally. “I’m really sorry about my attitude.”

“Don’t you dare apologize.” Hudson walked over to her and, when he was close, lifted his hand intending to caress her cheek. It had always been a normal gesture between them, but he stopped himself when he realized it definitely wasn’t something he could just do anymore. “I’m the one who failed you, okay? Not the other way around.”

“You didn’t fail me, honey.” Kiley bit her lip at the endearment. Hudson smiled softly, because letting go of what they’d built for more than six years was definitely going to be hard. “You would’ve failed me if, knowing how you felt, you hadn’t told me.”

“I still did, after everything that happened,” Hudson said. “I think the best thing for both of us is to be somewhere we can process all of this.” He paused. “Leaving tomorrow is the least I can do to give you some peace right now.”

“Okay, we’re not competing over who’s more responsible right now.” Kiley smiled. “I guess this is normal, right?” Hudson nodded. “When I get the chance to actually go no contact, I’ll be able to heal.”

“Me too.”

Hudson stepped closer, kissed her forehead, and hugged her. The embrace lasted only a few seconds before he pulled away.

“And if we keep this up, we’re not eating tonight.”

He turned back to the counter, trying to hide the sting in his eyes. Kiley stayed leaning against the wall at the kitchen entrance. Outside, the sky was still faintly lit, but not enough to brighten the room, so Hudson turned on the kitchen light, wiping away the shadows in the room.

The kitchen smelled like boiling pasta and onions. Kiley walked over, grabbed a couple of tomatoes, and helped Hudson peel the skin. They stood in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being the scrape of the knife against the wooden cutting board and the bubbling pasta on the stove. Hudson had never noticed how loud the refrigerator was.

“What about staying with Sophie?” Kiley asked, not looking up from the tomatoes.

Hudson had considered it at some point, but he didn’t want to explain to Sophie why he suddenly needed a place to stay — or what he was supposed to do with all his boxes and suitcases. He had other friends, but each one felt like a worse option; not because they were bad people, but because they’d ask too many questions, and Hudson wasn’t ready to answer them.

“Maybe,” he said at last. In a way, he knew his relationship with Sophie wasn’t close enough to just show up at her place, but he also knew she wouldn’t say no — especially considering she’d be in Montreal for those days. “I’ll call her later.”

Kiley nodded, and Hudson thought she looked a little disappointed at the idea that there was already a real option for him to leave. As if the moment he walked out the door with all his things, the relationship would finally be, truly over.

They were sitting at the table after dinner. They’d relaxed a little after criticizing every last bite — they’d both forgotten to add salt. Outside, the sky was completely dark now, and the faint light from the living room lamps cast distorted shadows on the wall.

Hudson had picked up his phone to call Sophie. It was pretty late to call her, but he wanted to know if he could stay at her place while she was in Montreal. Hudson hated inconveniencing anyone, so just the idea of asking her for that was stressing him out even more. He could just go to a hotel, leave his boxes and suitcases at a friend’s place, and avoid having to explain himself right now. But Kiley seemed anxious to know whether Sophie would say yes or not. Somehow, Kiley had always wanted him to be closer to Sophie, so maybe that was part of her intention now — but for Hudson, it felt uncomfortable.

“I’ll call Sophie now,” he told Kiley, and she nodded. She stood up, gathered the plates from the table, and went into the kitchen to clean up the mess from dinner.

The phone rang for several seconds before Sophie answered. Hudson knew instantly she wasn’t at the hotel — he could hear music in the background, voices chattering, and Sophie’s voice was definitely not that of someone in full control of her senses.

“You bastard,” Sophie answered, and Hudson couldn’t help laughing at the sound of her drunken voice.

“Getting wasted out of your mind?” Hudson said. “How much have you had, by the way?”

“I didn’t count, but I can assure you a liter of craft beer can cleanse your soul in times of crisis.”

“I don’t have good memories with craft beer. I’ll pass,” Hudson said.

“You’re a fucking chicken,” Sophie screeched, and Hudson couldn’t help wondering how many other people besides him were hearing her, because she wasn’t talking — she was practically yelling.

“I prefer surviving my hangovers without violently worshipping the toilet bowl,” Hudson replied. “By the way, are you still in Montreal?”

“Yup,” Sophie said. “Why? Planning something you’ll end up ditching me for anyway?”

“I didn’t ditch you,” Hudson scoffed. “We never actually made plans. That doesn’t count.”

Sophie started rambling about how she’d been begging him forever to make plans with her when it suddenly occurred to Hudson that his mom was the best option for storing his things. His mom was probably the only person who would take his boxes without asking questions and just wait until he felt ready to talk. Even though that would pretty much confirm things with Kiley were over. But she was his mom; he could handle that discomfort with her. So he tuned out Sophie’s rambling, he decided he wouldn’t ask her anything after all.

“What do you think?”

Shit, Hudson thought. He had no fucking idea what Sophie had just said because he’d been lost in his own head.

“Are you alone?” he countered with another question. Sophie was drunk enough that she’d probably just follow along. And she did.

“No, I’m not alone,” she said. “Wait. Here—”

Sophie’s voice drifted away from the line, and if it hadn’t been for the background noise still going, Hudson would’ve thought she’d hung up.

“Hello?”

Hudson’s heart stopped dead when he heard his voice. Fuck. He had missed that voice so much that just hearing it sent every nerve in his body on high alert. He couldn’t form a word, even though he wanted to.

“Hello?” Connor repeated.

“Hi”

Hudson finally said, barely more than a whisper, the word slipping out with a tired sigh. His brain wasn’t exactly connected to his body at that moment, because despite how much he’d missed Connor, despite how happy he was to hear him, his brain immediately reminded him of all the anger and resentment he’d been carrying: about the meeting, about not going to the hotel that day, about leaving him waiting, about fucking his boyfriend, about putting him last, about not trying to talk about that almost-kiss between them.

For a split second, Hudson wondered how ridiculous he was being.

“Oh…” Connor stumbled over his words. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Hudson said, glancing toward the kitchen. His heart was racing like someone having an affair and getting a call right in front of their partner.

“I’m sorry,” Connor said at last. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I didn’t know Sophie…”

“It’s fine,” Hudson cut him off when he saw Kiley drying her hands in the kitchen. she was done, which meant she’d probably come sit at the table to hear what Sophie had said. “I have to go.”

He ended the call before waiting for Connor’s reply — practically hung up on him. He didn’t want to tell Kiley, right then, that it hadn’t been Sophie. That it had been Connor.

“So?” Kiley asked, already expecting an answer.

“Sophie’s not exactly… functional right now,” Hudson said, managing a small smile. “She’s wasted.”

“Oh.”

“I think it’s for the best. I decided I’ll go to my mom’s place.”

Kiley’s face went pale, and Hudson knew she hadn’t suggested that option because it meant involving his mother — but mostly because it made everything so much more real. The fact that Hudson would take his things to his mom’s house — that she’d know what was going on — made the breakup undeniable.

***

Kiley had insisted Hudson wait so she could go with him to his mother’s house. After so many years, she at least wanted to go with him and say a proper goodbye, because she knew that if she didn’t do it now, she probably never would. She told Hudson she’d leave the studio early and go with him.

Hudson agreed; besides, it worked out for him because that day he had an online interview with Exclaim!, which would distract him from everything else and force him to focus on one thing.

The interview went smoothly, no technical issues, and it was actually pretty entertaining. He spoke for minutes at a time, answering every question without stopping and, for a moment, all thoughts of Connor and Kiley faded.Or at least they did until his phone vibrated on the desk and the screen lit up with Connor’s name.

Hudson couldn’t help tensing up — not only because, over the past few days, even the smallest thing related to Connor had shaken him more than usual, but because Connor didn’t usually call without warning and he certainly didn’t usually make voice calls; it was always video calls. Still, he could understand that: they weren’t exactly on good terms right now. Maybe he was just testing the waters. Even so, he couldn’t stop himself from feeling worried.

He didn’t have to reject the call — he hesitated so long it stopped ringing on its own. To keep the vibration from distracting him during the interview, in case Connor called again, he picked up the phone and slid it between his legs.

“Hudson?”

He lifted his head, startled to realize he’d missed more than half of what had just been said.

“Sorry, my phone was… sorry,” he apologized quickly.

“It’s fine,” the interviewer replied. “I was saying that after experiencing your debut in a high fashion runway show, are you still planning to pursue work in that field?”

By the time the interview ended, Hudson knew Kiley had arrived. Gizmo had meowed just before the apartment door opened, and he could hear her somewhere in the house, moving around. She knew he was in an interview, so she didn’t announce that she was home.

During a short break, Hudson had texted Connor to remind him about the interview and explaining that that was why he couldn’t answer. But even now, after it had ended — and it had been a long one — Connor still hadn’t replied.

Hudson figured he was probably busy with something. Most likely with his boyfriend — which immediately made his stomach drop. Why call him if he was only going to try once? Was he that busy with his boyfriend?

Hudson didn’t think it through much and, ignoring his own rule about not talking to Connor while Kiley was nearby, decided to FaceTime him. He would just make sure he was okay, and if he didn’t answer, then he was probably just doing his thing. But Connor rejected the call. Hudson’s face fell, and he tossed the phone onto the bed.

A thousand thoughts raced through his head, but they always circled back to the same point: he was probably with François.

He stayed standing there, staring at the phone on the bed, waiting — no, almost summoning it to ring. Because after being so angry, after Connor had made him wait, he’d finally decided to call him and Connor had just rejected it. Hudson tried to be rational. Connor didn’t have to drop whatever he was doing just because Hudson had decided it was time to talk. — or at least to check if he was okay. He repeated to himself that he had no right to be mad that his best friend was spending time with his boyfriend. He sighed at the thought, because all his frustration in that moment boiled down to the same thing: Connor, once again, was prioritizing François.

His heart flipped when the screen lit up. He practically lunged for the phone, but his expression tightened when he saw it wasn’t a video call — just a voice call. That was strange. They almost never did that. The thought that Connor wasn’t okay replaced everything else he’d been thinking, so he answered as soon as his brain let him move.

“Hello?” Hudson was painfully aware that his greeting had come out like a question. It was the confusion of receiving a voice call. “Are you okay?” he rushed to ask, because that was the question hammering inside his head.

“Uh… no,” Connor replied. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

Hudson’s chest sank. He’d been resenting Connor for days, and meanwhile his friend wasn’t okay. But more than that, the fact that Connor admitted he wasn’t okay and still didn’t want to talk about it meant something was seriously wrong. And it couldn’t just be a fight with François. Hudson knew this was different.

“Then why were you calling me?” The words came out drier than he’d meant them to. Not rude — but not right either. He could hear Kiley moving around in the living room, the soft friction of her steps against the floor, the faint sound of something being moved. And he was locked inside the bedroom with the door closed, as if he were hiding. As if talking to Connor right now had to be done in the dark.

“Because I wanted to talk to you,” Connor said, almost whispering. “I miss you.”

Hudson felt his heart skip, then slam against his ribs. Fuck. He hated feeling like this just because Connor said that. Just because he heard his voice on the other end. They’d said “I miss you” countless times before — too many to count. But now, being fully aware of what he felt, it made him feel weak. Exposed.

Any other time he would’ve smiled and told him they’d see each other soon, would’ve answered with an I miss you too. He was so caught in Connor’s words — so tangled in what they meant now — that he couldn’t speak.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re with Kiley right now and—”

“Yes,” Hudson cut in quickly, as if saying it would somehow explain why he couldn’t respond the way he wanted to. “I’m with Kiley.”

He realized too late how that had sounded. Maybe, without meaning to, he had made it sound like things had to be taken seriously now, especially after their conversation about boundaries that neither of them had really bothered to respect. Connor probably wouldn’t take it well, because in the past that had never been the answer.He knew he was right when Connor replied:

“’m sorry for bothering you. Have fun.”

Connor hung up. Hudson only realized when he heard the call-ending tone.

Had he just hung up on him?

Technically, Hudson had done the same thing the day before. But right now he felt overstimulated, and anger surged up fast.

Wasn’t Connor being too much? Wasn’t everything too much? Leaving him waiting at that damn hotel. Accepting that fucking CAA deal. Texting him in the middle of the night. Calling him, worrying him, then cutting the call just because he was with Kiley. Connor had interrupted plenty of times when Hudson was with Kiley, and hanging up had never been an option. At least not like that.

He knew Connor wasn’t okay. But did that justify it?

Hudson was so pissed he almost called back immediately. But he knew he was furious — and the last thing he wanted was for Kiley to hear him argue. He didn’t want her overhearing him fight with the man he liked in her apartment, days after they’d broken up.

He stormed out of the bedroom and nearly collided with Kiley.

“Hey,” she said. “How’d it go?” She meant the interview.

“I’ll be back,” he muttered, not answering. He knew his anger was obvious despite his efforts.

He walked out of the apartment, shoes barely on his heels, and slammed the door harder than he ever would. Hudson hated slamming doors — but today he couldn’t control it.

He called Connor halfway down the hallway while pressing the elevator button. Connor answered, but before he could even speak, Hudson exploded.

“You didn’t show up at the damn hotel that day,” he started. “I waited for you all fucking day and you didn’t come, you didn’t text, you didn’t call. Nothing.” He inhaled sharply. “I was fucking worried about you, but you didn’t give a shit, Connor. And then you texted me in the middle of the night asking if we can talk? Did what I thought matter that little? What I felt in that moment?”  He deliberately avoided mentioning the almost-kiss.

“What are you talking about?” Connor sounded genuinely confused.

“What do you think I’m talking about?” Hudson snapped. “That damn meeting. The bullshit you agreed to just to cover your boyfriend’s fucking ass.”

“Huddy—” Connor tried, but Hudson didn’t let him.

“You’re not a fucking child, and you’re definitely not some fucking superhero who has to go around sacrificing himself because Mr. ‘my life is slipping away, I’m a washed-up old man’ thinks it suits him.” Hudson let out a frustrated sound. “And you? What about you? What about what you feel? Do you love him so much that you’re willing to swallow all of it while watch him put on some ridiculous act with another man just for recognition?”

“Huddy—” Connor insisted.

“Fuck this,” Hudson spat. “I know you don’t like me talking about your relationship, and fuck the damn boundaries, don’t you think this is enough? That fucking idiot doesn’t love you. He can’t— not if he’s willing to let the person he’s supposed to love go through all this shit for him.”

“Huddy!” Connor raised his voice, and only then did, Hudson realized he was practically shouting, talking so fast Connor hadn’t had a chance to breathe. “No… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you, I just…”

Hudson heard the panic in Connor’s voice and knew it was because he’d shouted — because he’d promised he never would again. But Hudson wasn’t upset about that. In that moment, it almost felt necessary. Otherwise he would’ve drawn the attention of anyone passing by. He hadn’t even noticed he’d stepped out of the elevator and was now standing in the building lobby.

He’d been harsh. Connor had every right to snap back.

“It’s okay,” Hudson said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Connor let out a heavy breath. “You…”

“What?”

“You were disappointed in me.”

Hudson had known since that CAA meeting that he’d owe Connor an apology for that. Connor didn’t handle disappointment well — especially from someone he loved.

Hudson knew that since he was a kid, Connor had tried to keep everyone happy, to keep that feeling from ever turning against him.

Connor had no problem cutting people off. If things stopped working, he moved on. Hudson figured it came from all the moving around during his childhood — never staying in one place long enough to build deep roots. Because of that, Connor also had no trouble letting new people into his life. His whole life had functioned like that.

Connor had a small, specific group of people he simply refused to let go of. He just couldn’t. And with that group, he could barely process the idea of disappointing them. If someone he cared about that much felt disappointed in him, Connor genuinely didn’t know how to move forward. Maybe it was rooted in the same instability he’d grown up with — he could let go easily, but once he formed a real bond, cutting it felt almost impossible.

“You can’t tell me that’s not true,” Connor continued quietly. “I know you. Your face said everything you didn’t dare to put into words that day.”

“I’m sorry,” Hudson replied, calmer now. “I realized too late that I’d done that.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Connor said. “If you felt that way, that’s okay. I get it. I’m the one who’s sorry. I’d rather you be honest with me.”

“I was,” Hudson said. “I know dealing with all that’s shit for you, but…” He exhaled. “All of this is fucking shit. And I have a lot more to say about it, but I’ll stop.”

It hit Hudson suddenly that Connor wasn’t okay — and he had let his anger take over and just attacked to vent. Without meaning to, he’d added to whatever Connor was already carrying.

“I didn’t ignore you on purpose,” Connor said finally. “I thought if you were that disappointed, you wouldn’t want to talk to me. Then…” He went quiet for a few seconds. “Then I had a conversation with him.” He didn’t say François’ name, but Hudson knew. “It got late, and when I checked my phone… well, I texted you after.”

“Uh…” was all Hudson managed.

“You’re not with…?” Connor hesitated. “Kiley isn’t there?”

“No,” Hudson answered firmly. “I bolted out of the apartment so I could call you.”

The memory of how he’d stormed out hit him instantly, and his stomach twisted at the thought of walking back in and explaining that to Kiley.

“You hung up the fucking phone on me,” Hudson muttered.

“You did it first,” Connor shot back, referring to the call with Sophie.

“I was angry,” Hudson defended weakly.

“I know,” Connor said.

“Where are you?” Hudson asked.

“In Winnipeg.”

“Weren’t you supposed to travel the day after tomorrow?”

His stomach dropped. If Connor had gone early, that could only mean he was running from something.

“Yeah, but…” Connor hesitated. “I had to come earlier. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when we see each other.”

“Are you okay?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have asked — Connor had already said he didn’t want to talk about it — but Hudson couldn’t help himself. Knowing he was struggling and had flown out early filled him with anxious urgency.

“No,” Connor admitted, and his voice sounded so vulnerable that Hudson’s heart physically clenched.

“Don’t you want to do a video call?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Hudson’s voice softened. “Did I leave you to deal with something really hard on your own?”

“No,” Connor said quickly. “You’re here.”

Hudson closed his eyes, trying to convince himself that this — talking to him, listening, reminding him he wasn’t alone — was all he could do right now. But he couldn’t stand the image of Connor alone in another city, feeling like hell with no one beside him.

Connor was sensitive in a way that needed care. He deserved to be heard. To be held. To be treated gently. And Hudson couldn’t bear the idea of him going through something heavy without support.

He missed him so much. It had only been a few days, but it felt like months. Hearing his voice helped — but it hurt too, hearing the sadness in it from so far away. They had always been there for each other. Always. And the voice in Hudson’s head kept screaming that Connor needed him. That he couldn’t leave him alone.

But it wasn’t just about Connor.

It was about him too.

He missed him. He wanted to see him. He wanted to be next to him.

“I miss you too,” Hudson finally said. “We’ll see each other soon. And we’ll talk when you’re ready.”

This time, they ended the call together. Hudson stood there for a few seconds, still holding the phone, staring at the now-dark screen.

That’s when he knew.

He had to go to Winnipeg.

He couldn’t leave Connor alone. The idea lodged in his chest and his mind. He knew Connor would be working. He knew it was probably a bad idea to fly to another city just to support him and then fly back to Toronto to continue filming. It was impulsive. Exhausting. It would probably be just one day.

But one day would be enough.

At the same time, he didn’t want to pressure him. He didn’t want to show up and make Connor feel obligated to talk. He was terrified his presence might feel like a demand — like an expectation to break the silence.

Yet deep down he also knew that once they were face to face, Connor would feel better. He could distract him. Hold him. Remind him — in more ways than words — that he wasn’t alone. That even if the rest of the world turned its back on him, Hudson never would.

He went back upstairs and opened the apartment door.

Kiley was sitting on the couch with Gizmo curled between her legs. Daylight from the window fell across her face, and even from the doorway Hudson could see the concern there. He didn’t blame her. The way he’d stormed out minutes ago — the slammed door, the rushed footsteps — didn’t signal anything good.

“Is everything okay?” she asked softly.

Hudson felt awful. He had just ended a six-year relationship — and he was already desperate to get on a plane and go to Connor. He had just come back from talking to him — and now he had to look Kiley in the eyes and tell her he needed to leave.

The contradiction weighed on him like a stone.

He remained by the door, unable to move. His legs felt weak, unstable, like taking a single step forward would mean admitting something permanent.

But when he saw Kiley’s worry deepen in the silence, he forced himself to speak.

“I think I need to get on a plane,” he said quietly, as if lowering his voice might soften the blow.

“What?”

Hudson understood why she was confused. His suitcases and boxes were still scattered around the apartment; they were supposed to take them to his mother’s house that day, close the chapter with some order — with some dignity.That day was meant to be the final period on their relationship.

“I…” He lowered his gaze, unable to hold hers. “I have to go.”

“I don’t understand,” Kiley said. There was no anger in her voice yet — just disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” Hudson replied, and this time the weight of it was unmistakable.

“Oh…” was all she managed.

“I’m really sorry,” he repeated, as if saying it again could somehow make it better.

“Connor?”

When she said his name, something tightened in Hudson’s throat. He couldn’t look at her — he wasn’t strong enough to face her and say it out loud.

 He just nodded.

“You need to get your things out of here,” Kiley said through her teeth. “I don’t want them here. I told you I don’t.”

“I know, but—”

He stopped when she stood up abruptly. Gizmo jumped off her lap and landed on the floor, alert to the sudden shift in the air.

“No,” she said firmly. “You can get on the fucking plane after you get your things out of here.” She wasn’t yelling — she didn’t need to. Her words were sharp enough that Hudson nearly stepped back. “You can go wherever you need to go after you take everything.”

Hudson knew that Kiley’s earlier speech — about encouraging him to confess his feelings to Connor — hadn’t been fake, but it had been deliberate. In that moment she’d been trying to do what she believed was right, to be the most mature version of herself. But now, caught off guard, watching him put Connor before her in such an obvious way, it was only natural that she’d snap.

“Yes,” Hudson said quietly, because it was the bare minimum he could offer. “I’m sorry.”

They got to Hudson’s mother’s house a little after six Kiley hadn’t spoken the entire drive, and Hudson hadn’t tried to start a conversation either. He knew he’d crossed a line. He’d pushed too far. It had been a desperate impulse, born from knowing Connor wasn’t okay.

His mother greeted them with a wide, warm smile — the kind that had always made Hudson feel safe. But it faded the moment she saw him pop the trunk and start pulling out boxes. Meanwhile, Kiley was pulling the suitcases from the back seat.

“What’s going on?” his mother asked, concern quickly settling into her voice.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you first, Mom,” Hudson said, avoiding her eyes as he held one of the boxes against his chest. “Can I stay here for a bit?”

“What’s going on?” she repeated, this time looking at Kiley.

Kiley didn’t answer out loud, but the way her expression faltered into a sad, tight smile was enough. Hudson’s mother understood almost immediately.

“Oh…” was all she said.

She stepped aside to let them carry the boxes in and then walked toward the car herself to help unload the rest.

That night, Hudson lay on the bed in his old room. One arm was tucked beneath his head, the other resting over his abdomen, legs crossed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. There was still something familiar in the air, and it gave him a strange sense of peace.

His mother hadn’t asked questions earlier, and that comforted him. He knew she would listen when he was ready to talk. She hadn’t asked questions when she invited Kiley to stay for dinner and Kiley declined, either. She’d simply hugged her and thanked her for everything before she left. His mother had said — maybe trying to convince herself it was just a fight that had gotten out of hand — that Kiley would always be welcome in her home.

When Kiley reached the door, Hudson caught up to her and didn’t let her open it. His mother, watching them from the middle of the living room, decided to go upstairs to give them privacy. Hudson held Kiley’s hand, but she didn’t turn to look at him.

“Forgive me for being a fucking bastard right to the end,” he said, his voice breaking.

He regretted being so impulsive, not thinking about her. Deep down, it was just another reminder that he didn’t deserve someone like Kiley.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said without looking at him. “You brought me back to reality pretty fast.”

“Ki…”

“I hope you have a good trip,” she added, a barely disguised edge in her expression. “I hope I see you again someday.”

When Kiley tried to open the door, Hudson didn’t let her. He knew he had to let go. He knew he had to let her walk away. But the selfish part of him didn’t want her to leave like this. Because once she stepped through that door, it would really be over. And it hurt — even if he had been selfish enough to realize it too late.

“Forgive me,” he pleaded.

“Aren’t you tired of saying the same thing?”

“Because I really mean it.”

“Hud…” She finally turned to face him. “You can’t spend your whole life apologizing for loving one person and not loving another.”

“Don’t say that—”

“You know what I mean,” Kiley cut in. “You can’t go around expecting your choices to satisfy everyone. You made a decision… no—” she corrected herself quickly, “we made a decision. And that decision doesn’t make me happy.” She smiled sadly. “But what I feel now isn’t your responsibility anymore.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s not,” she countered. “It’s mine. Do what you have to do and stop living with my ghost in your head. Don’t make this about you.”

Hudson frowned.

“Do you think I’ll cry over you my whole life?” she asked with a faint smile.

“No. I hope you don’t cry even one day.”

“That’s a big ask.”

“Please take care of yourself,” Hudson said.

“You too,” Kiley replied.

Hudson closed the distance and pulled her into a tight embrace — almost desperate. Kiley wrapped her arms around his waist and held him just as tightly, resting her face against his chest. Her unsteady breathing betrayed the tears she was fighting back.

“I’ll hate you for the next few days,” she whispered against him.

“Just a few days,” Hudson murmured. “Don’t hold anything back for me. I don’t deserve it.”

“No,” she said softly. “You don’t.”

Kiley pulled away, took a breath, and opened the door. She hesitated for a second — maybe waiting, one last time, for Hudson to stop her again.

He didn’t.

She stepped across the threshold, and Hudson closed the door behind her.

Kiley was taking the car and had insisted on going alone, so Hudson didn’t argue. Once the door was shut, the pain hit him sharply. A chapter of his life had closed, and fuck, it hurt. It hurt so much. He leaned his back against the door, tilted his head back, and let it thud lightly against the wood.

His heart pounded wildly when the engine started on the other side. The sound of the engine was the final punctuation mark. And then his chest couldn’t hold it in anymore. Because Kiley was gone — and now she was gone for real.

Back in his bed, in his old room, his phone vibrated.

He picked it up to see a message from Nick: I’ll get you the room key. It’ll do him good to have you there. And by the way, I got you a seat on the same flight we’re taking back to Toronto.

Hudson let the phone rest on his chest for a second, letting the words sink in. He smiled at the thought of surprising Connor — but even more at the possibility of seeing him again.

This time, he thought, with less guilt pressing against his chest.

***

Winnipeg – A few days earlier

“What’s going on?”

Kiley’s voice on the other end of the line sounded frantic. Hudson felt a sharp pang of guilt. Things had escalated so fast she hadn’t even gotten a break after the breakup. And even worse — that she had to be the one calling him.

“I’m sorry, I was just about to call you,” Hudson said as soon as he closed the hotel room door. Nick and Connor were inside, and he needed some privacy to talk to her.

“Are you okay?”

“Are you okay?” Hudson shot back, avoiding a direct answer.

“This is fucking insane. Why now?” Kiley sounded overwhelmed, shaken by whatever was unfolding.

“I don’t know.” He let out a tired breath. “We think it has something to do with that proposal CAA made at the beginning — the one we turned down. A few days ago…” Hudson cleared his throat. “I mean, I didn’t get a chance to tell you this, but a few days ago we had a meeting where I turned down something they wanted, and apparently this is the result.”

Kiley went quiet for a few seconds before responding.

“What are you supposed to do now?” she asked. “No — I mean, is there anything you can do?”

“I’m not sure yet, but Ki…” Hudson felt embarrassed by the situation. “I don’t know if this even needs to be said,but you know that article is bullshit, right?”

“Of course I do,” she replied, sounding slightly surprised. “Hud, I would never doubt you like that. I just…” She sighed. “It scared me for a couple of seconds when I read it, but that’s all. You don’t need to worry about that right now. That’s not the important part.”

“It is important. I don’t want you getting the wrong idea.”

“I never would,” she cut in. “And honestly, it kind of offends me that you’d even think I would.”

Hudson felt like he could finally breathe properly again. Not that he truly believed Kiley thought the article was true — but given everything that had happened recently, he needed her to know that, even if he’d screwed everything up — even if he’d betrayed her emotionally — he had never crossed a physical line while they were together.

Though if he was being honest, that was almost hypocritical. Because the day Connor had almost kissed him — if Connor hadn’t pulled back at the last second — Hudson might be dealing with something very different right now.

“I just needed to make sure you knew. And I don’t know… I guess we just have to figure out the next step. Maybe legally. I don’t know. My head’s not working right.”

There was a slight silence on the other end. Hudson glanced at his phone screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.

“Ki?”

“Yeah?” Her voice sounded dimmer now.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, but…” Her tone shifted — something in it he couldn’t quite name. “Are you with him right now?”

Hudson felt his chest tighten. He knew it had to be hard for Kiley — especially now — knowing he had actually gotten on a plane to be with Connor. And maybe she was imagining things.

“No… I mean, yes, but—” The words came out tangled and clumsy.

“We should talk later.”

Hudson felt dizzy for a second. It felt like stepping into some alternate universe where Kiley was the one cutting the call short because he was with Connor — just like Connor had done the day before. The irony made his stomach twist.

“You know it’s not like that. You don’t have to—”

“I don’t have weird ideas in my head,” Kiley interrupted. “I just don’t feel comfortable knowing you’re talking to me while he’s there. Can you understand that?”

“Of course I can.”

“I’m sorry. I know all of this is shit, but Hud… even though I hate that this is happening — especially now — I don’t want to be involved. I need to breathe in the middle of all this because I just… I can’t do this.”

“I know, I know,” he rushed to say. “I’m not trying to drag you into this. The last thing I want is your pictures circulating again and people going after you for it.”

“That’s not what I care about.”