Copyright © 2026 Nuno R.F.C.R. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, reviews, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by applicable copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), actual events, or real locales is entirely coincidental.
“Fries”
“Hey.”
Hudson didn’t mean for the word to come out too fast.
It slipped out, part greeting, part apology, as his tray hit the booth and gravity took over.
The lemon wedge skidded, the glass teetered, and ice scattered like frantic diamonds.
Hudson lunged, caught the glass, and pinned it upright. The drink sloshed but didn’t spill. A miracle. His heart, though, jumped to his throat.
The booth sat inside a decorative cage of black-iron bars curled with welded vines. West Hollywood pulsed outside: bass leaking, traffic on Santa Monica, and a chorus of people pretending not to be seen.
Inside the cage, the man at the table looked up.
He wasn’t disguised so much as in denial: cap low, dark sunglasses, a hoodie worth more than Hudson’s rent. Even trying to be small, his presence was unmistakable.
The man’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. More like deciding whether to be annoyed or amused.
Hudson breathed, reminding himself he was a professional. He’d once dropped fries in a woman’s purse; she’d called it a sign from God for more starch. He could handle a near-collision.
“Sorry,” Hudson said, steadying the tray with both hands. “Your table jumped out at me.”
The man’s head tilted, as if he’d never heard that excuse before. Then, slowly, he lifted his sunglasses just enough to look over the top.
Hudson’s brain did the thing it always did when it was surprised: it offered up useless details.
Blonde hair, messy from too many nervous rakes. A clean jaw with stubble, not quite bearded or bare. Chestnut eyes, warm, ringed with dark gold, lit by bright exhaustion.
Hudson felt his cheeks heat and immediately hated himself for it.
“It’s fine,” the man said. His voice was lower than Hudson expected. Not raspy. Just lived-in. “I have a history of provoking objects.”
Hudson blinked. “Are you haunted?”
“Only by my choices.”
Hudson let out a laugh before he could stop it, a quick burst that sounded too loud in the cage. The man’s expression softened, amused now, genuinely.
It’s just a guy, Hudson told himself. A guy in expensive casual clothes, just trying to eat dinner.
Hudson adjusted his grip on the tray, got the drink back to where it belonged, and straightened. “What can I get you? And please don’t say ‘therapy’ because I’m not licensed.”
The man’s mouth curved. A real smile this time. It made his whole face look younger, as if the cap and hoodie were suddenly extra. “Do you have anything that tastes like invisibility?”
Hudson glanced past the cage, toward the front windows. Outside, he could see a cluster of shadows lingering across the street. A flash went off, sharp, like a tiny lightning strike. The host stand area tensed. Even the bartender looked over.
Hudson turned back. “In West Hollywood? That’s like ordering silence at a concert.”
The man leaned back into the booth, shoulders tight beneath the hoodie. “I’m desperate.”
Hudson studied him for half a second longer than he should have. There was something almost boyish about the way he’d said it. Like he expected to be laughed at and was bracing for it.
Hudson didn’t laugh.
“Okay,” Hudson said, lowering his voice a notch. “Then you need the cage. You’re in it. Congratulations. The vibe is...medieval confidentiality.”
The man glanced at the iron bars, as if seeing them for the first time. “It’s romantic.”
“It’s a liability,” Hudson said. “If there’s a fire, we all die in here together. That’s bonding.”
The man huffed a quiet laugh, then reached up and tugged his cap lower. “Fine. Then get me something that looks like a normal drink. Something boring. Something nobody would photograph.”
Hudson nodded, shifting into waiter mode, but his curiosity snagged on the man’s tension like a hook. “Water? That’s oddly specific.”
“I’m oddly specific.”
Hudson tapped his pen against his notepad. He couldn’t help it. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
The man paused, and in that pause, Hudson heard the scrape of Los Angeles being Los Angeles. Then the man said, “I’m from everywhere. Nowhere. Depends who’s asking.”
Hudson stared at him for a beat, then wrote something down theatrically. “Got it. One ‘everywhere-nowhere’ with a twist.”
The man watched him, eyes tracking the pen. Something about that gaze, direct but not predatory, tired but still bright, made Hudson feel suddenly more awake.
Hudson was twenty-two. He’d been alert for months, for years, in the way you are when you’re always working, always thinking about rent and whether you’ll ever do more than survive. But this was different. Someone spun the camera’s focus, and the world snapped into clarity.
“What’s your name?” the man asked, casually, as if he asked waiters their names all the time.
Hudson hesitated. Normally, he wore his name like a tag: here I am, customer service in human form. But the question sounded different. Real, in a sense.
“Hudson,” he said.
The man repeated it quietly, tasting it. “Hudson.”
Hudson made a show of writing again. “And you are…?”
The man’s smile turned sly, immediately defensive in a charming way. “Nobody.”
Hudson didn’t flinch. He’d served celebrities before, sweaty pop stars, comedians in disguises that fooled no one, influencers who filmed their food from fourteen angles and then left a ten percent tip. Most famous people came with a little performance: either Please notice me or Please don’t. But this man, this nobody, felt like he was trying to step out of himself for an hour.
Hudson nodded seriously. “Okay, Nobody. What can I get you to eat?”
“Nobody’s hungry,” the man said. “Nobody is stressed.”
Hudson angled his head. “Nobody looks like he’s been chased by a pack of wolves.”
The man’s jaw tightened in a way that gave away the truth. He lowered his sunglasses fully again, but it was too late. Hudson had already seen.
The man exhaled through his nose. “Not wolves. Cameras. Same teeth, different saliva.”
Hudson’s mouth went dry, gaze darting outside. Another flash. The shadows shifted, circling.
The man noticed Hudson looking. “They followed me,” he said, quieter now.
Hudson’s chest tightened with something. Sympathy, maybe. Annoyance on the man’s behalf. Or the simple fact that it was hard to watch someone be hunted in public and pretend it was normal.
Hudson flipped his notepad shut. "Okay," he said briskly, as if he were tackling a regular restaurant hiccup. "Time for a little magic trick."
The man’s head tilted. “Are you a magician?”
“I’m a waiter,” Hudson said. “It’s basically the same. I disappear when you need me and reappear when you’re annoyed.”
That got a small laugh. The man’s shoulders loosened a fraction.
Hudson leaned in, resting his forearm casually against one of the iron bars. “So, hear me out. I’m going to bring you something boring. But in a glass that looks expensive. That way, anyone watching thinks you’re just another beautiful man spending too much money on a drink you don’t even want.”
The man went still.
Hudson realized what he’d said, and heat crawled up his neck. He scrambled, covering it with speed. “I mean, it’s Los Angeles. Half the business model is people paying for sadness in crystal.”
The man stared at him, and Hudson couldn’t tell if he’d noticed the slip or if he was pretending not to.
Then the man said, “You think I’m beautiful?”
Hudson’s stomach dropped, and for a half-second, his mind offered him three choices: lie, joke, or run into the kitchen and never return.
He chose the fourth option, which was honesty disguised as sarcasm. “I think,” Hudson said, “you’re going to get me fired if you keep looking at me like that.”
The man’s smile widened, slow and delighted. “Like what?”
“Like you’re deciding if I’m edible.”
The man laughed out loud at that, and for a moment, he looked like someone who wasn’t being watched by the world. Just a guy in a cage with a waiter who didn’t know when to shut up.
Hudson felt something open in his own chest at the sound.
The man sobered slightly, still smiling. “I’m deciding if you’re safe.”
That landed heavier than the jokes.
Hudson held his gaze. “Safe,” Hudson repeated, quieter. “Yeah. I can do safe.”
The man’s fingers tapped once against the table. He looked toward the iron bars again and then toward the rest of the restaurant. He lifted his sunglasses fully this time and hooked them onto the collar of his hoodie, surrendering his eyes to the warm light.
Hudson’s breath caught again, traitorously.
“I’m Liam,” the man said.
Hudson froze, pen suspended mid-air like a cartoon. It wasn’t just the name alone. It was the way he said it, like handing someone a loaded object and trusting them not to drop it. Hudson’s mind sifted through memory. Posters. Trailers. Magazine issues. Commercials. That face ten feet tall on a bus shelter, looking down at the street like a god pretending to be human.
Liam Hart.
Hudson swallowed. “Oh,” he said, eloquent as a brick.
Liam watched him closely, the smile now tentative. “That ‘oh’ wasn’t good.”
Hudson blinked hard and forced himself back on track. He was a waiter. This was a table. This was not a dream, and even if it was, he was currently responsible for drinks.
“It’s not...,” Hudson said. “It’s just...”
“Just what?”
Hudson looked at him, then flicked his eyes toward the windows again. Another flash. Liam’s shoulders tensed as if the light had slapped him.
Hudson lowered his voice. “It’s just I think the wolves found you,” he said.
Liam’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look toward the windows. He looked at Hudson instead. Hudson surprised himself by feeling inappropriately protective.
Liam cleared his throat. “If you’re about to ask for a selfie, I’ll die right here.”
Hudson snorted. “If I asked for a selfie, I’d deserve to die right here.”
Liam’s lips parted, a flicker of relief crossing his face.
Hudson didn’t know what to do with gratitude from someone who lived in a different gravity, so he turned it into motion. “I’ll be back,” he said. “With your boring drink in an expensive glass.”
Liam nodded once. “And food?”
Hudson paused, pen hovering. “You said you weren’t hungry.”
Liam’s eyes stayed on him. “I lied. I’m actually starving. I just didn’t want to be seen eating.”
Hudson smirked. “What, like chewing is an intimate act?”
Liam’s gaze dipped briefly to Hudson’s mouth, so quick that Hudson was sure he imagined it, then returned to his eyes. “Chewing is very intimate,” Liam said, dead serious. “It’s why I don’t do it in public.”
Hudson felt his face warm again. “Okay,” he managed. “I’ll get you something you can chew privately in your medieval death cage.”
Liam’s mouth twitched. “Perfect.”
Hudson turned and walked away, and only then did he realize his legs felt slightly unsteady, as if the floor had shifted beneath him. He reached the service station and leaned down, pretending to organize napkins.
The bartender, Marisol, glanced over, eyebrows lifting. “Who’s in the cage?” she asked, low.
Hudson kept his eyes on the napkins. “A nobody.”
Marisol snorted. “A nobody with flawless cheekbones?”
Hudson exhaled. “Don’t start.”
Marisol leaned in, her voice dropping. “Is that...?”
Hudson shot her a look, and she immediately held up her hands in mock surrender. “Fine. I won’t say it,” she whispered. “But baby, if that’s who I think it is, you better not spill anything on him. You’ll end up as a meme.”
Hudson grabbed a clean glass. “I didn’t spill.”
He started building the “invisibility” drink. Sparkling water with a lime, a splash of something dark, served in a heavy crystal tumbler. It was ridiculous. It was exactly what Liam needed.
As Hudson worked, he caught himself smiling.
He didn’t smile during shifts. Not really. Smiling cost him energy. Smiling meant you were offering something you might not get back. But something about the man in the cage, Liam, with his tired eyes and dangerous beauty, made Hudson feel like smiling wasn’t a waste. At least not today. He carried the drink back toward the booth, weaving through bodies and noise.
Inside the cage, Liam had pulled his hoodie strings tighter and was sitting slightly to one side, shoulders angled away from the windows. He looked up the moment Hudson approached.
Hudson set the glass down gently.
“One invisibility,” Hudson said. “It’s basically water pretending to be interesting.”
Liam stared at it, then at Hudson. “That’s me.”
Hudson blinked. “What?”
Liam’s smile was small, but there was a tremor of sincerity beneath it. “Water pretending to be interesting.”
Hudson’s throat tightened. He covered it with a scoff. “Please. You’re more like...champagne pretending to be casual.”
Liam laughed softly and wrapped his fingers around the glass. His hands were warm-looking, if that made any sense, long fingers, clean nails, the kind of hands that probably signed autographs and held scripts and maybe, sometimes, held someone’s face.
He took a sip, then nodded with exaggerated seriousness. “I’m invisible.”
Hudson pretended to glance around. “Who said that?”
Liam smiled wider.
Hudson pulled his notepad out again, trying to remember he was here to take an order and not ‘whatever else this was’. “So,” he said, pen poised. “Food. Something chewable. Something that won’t get photographed and turned into a headline like ‘Liam Hart Eats Carbs, Fans Rejoice.’”
Liam’s eyes crinkled. “That could actually happen.”
Hudson shook his head. “This town is haunted.”
Liam leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Hudson?”
“Yeah?”
Liam hesitated, and the hesitation made him look younger than twenty-five. “Can you not tell anyone I’m here? You know...keep it discreet?” he asked.
Hudson felt the question settle into him. It wasn’t flirtation. It was trust offered with a trembling hand.
Hudson nodded once, solemn. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Liam’s gaze held his for a beat. Then, softer, almost teasing, he said, “You’re either very kind or very reckless.”
Hudson’s lips quirked. “I’m twenty-two. I’m legally obligated to be reckless.”
Liam laughed again, and this time the sound made something in Hudson’s chest ache in a way that felt like both warning and invitation.
Hudson scribbled on his pad. “Alright, invisible man. What do you want?”
Liam’s eyes flicked down to the notepad, then back up. “What do you recommend?”
Hudson opened his mouth to do his usual routine, something safe, something generic, something he could say without thinking. But then he caught Liam’s face, the tiny strain at the corner of his eyes, the way he kept one shoulder angled away from the windows like he expected the world to lunge at him again.
Hudson made a choice. He didn’t give Liam a menu recommendation. He gave him a moment.
“The fries,” Hudson said. “They’re stupid. They’re greasy. They’re perfect. And if you eat them, you’ll actually feel like a human being.”
Liam stared at him, then smiled slowly, like Hudson had offered him something rarer than food. “Fries,” Liam repeated, as if committing it to memory.
Hudson didn’t know then, couldn’t possibly know, that years later, when memory became a house with missing rooms, the word fries would still taste like the beginning. That the smell of hot oil and citrus would sometimes summon this very moment from inside an emotional fog.
“Sit for a second.”
Hudson’s pen paused.
“I can’t,” he said automatically. “I’m working.”
“I know,” Liam said, and there was a softness to his voice that made the refusal feel suddenly too sharp.
Hudson’s breath caught. He glanced over his shoulder. Marisol was watching, smirking. The host stand was busy. The wolves outside were still pacing, but they weren’t sure where their prey had gone. Hudson looked back at Liam. Liam’s chestnut eyes held something unguarded now. A kind of tired hope.
Hudson slid into the booth for exactly one second, which turned into a longer one the moment Liam’s smile bloomed like sunrise.
“There,” Liam said, quieter. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”
Hudson swallowed, trying to act normal. “Okay,” he said, tapping his notepad against the table like a gavel. “Fries. And?”
Liam leaned in, close enough that Hudson could smell something clean beneath the hoodie, soap, maybe, or cologne, or the simple fact of him. “And,” Liam said, eyes bright, “you tell me one true thing about yourself while I pretend to be invisible.”
Hudson blinked. “That’s not how ordering works.”
“It is now,” Liam said.
Hudson held his gaze. “One true thing?” Hudson asked.
Liam nodded, serious again. “One.”
Hudson thought of a hundred answers. The safe ones. The funny ones. The ones that kept his insides hidden.
Then, because Liam’s question had come off as genuine, Hudson said the first true thing that rose up, simple and strange and honest. “I always wanted a love story,” Hudson admitted, almost under his breath.
Liam went still. For a moment, the noise outside the cage faded.
Then Liam smiled.
Hudson’s pulse stumbled.
He looked down at his notepad, pretending to write, because staring at Liam Hart’s face felt like torture at this point. “Alright,” Hudson said, voice rougher than he intended, cracking slightly. “Fries. One invisibility.”
Liam’s laugh was quiet, but it was there. Until it wasn't. “You’re nervous,” he said.
Hudson looked down and realized he’d been worrying the edge of his notepad between his fingers, bending it, flattening it, bending it again, like paper could absorb panic.
“I’m not nervous,” Hudson lied.
Liam’s mouth tipped up. “You’re fidgeting.”
Hudson exhaled through his nose and glanced out through the bars. “I shouldn’t be sitting with a customer,” he said.
Liam lifted a shoulder. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s literally the job,” Hudson said. “You know. Serve the food. Smile. Disappear. Only come back when there’s ketchup involved.”
“Relax, Hudson. I’m not going to report you to the ketchup authorities,” Liam said.
Hudson’s gaze flicked over Liam’s face, trying and failing not to take in the details, the warmth in his eyes, the way his hoodie strings were knotted like he’d tied himself shut. “If he sees me in here, I'm fucked.”
"Who?" Liam asked.
"My manager," Hudson replied.
Liam leaned back, spreading one arm along the back of the booth. “Don't worry,” Liam said, “I’ll talk to him.”
Hudson gave him a look. “Of course you will.”
Liam blinked innocently. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re clearly used to getting what you want,” Hudson said with an edge to it, one he hadn’t meant to show.
Liam’s smile held for a beat before softening. He leaned back farther, head resting against the booth, and for a second, the cap shadowed his face so Hudson couldn’t read him. When Liam spoke, his voice came out lower.
“You’d be surprised,” he said.
Hudson’s joking expression faltered. Liam’s gaze moved, not to the windows, not to the room. It went straight to Hudson.
“The things I want most,” Liam said, “are rarely given to me.”
Hudson didn’t move. The restaurant noise seemed to thin around them, as if the cage had swallowed sound.
“Oh yeah? What kind of things?” Hudson asked.
Liam’s jaw shifted, like he was deciding how close to the truth he could step without falling in. “Normal things,” he said. “Stupid things.”
Hudson waited.
Liam let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but it didn’t carry any humor. “To walk without thinking about angles. Sit and eat fries without it turning into a headline. Be in a bad mood without someone deciding it means I’m ‘spiraling.’”
Hudson’s mouth tightened. He’d never really pictured fame as constant interpretation.
“That...sounds exhausting,” he said.
Liam’s lips twitched. “It is.”
Hudson nodded. His own life was exhaustion too, but in a different direction, hours, rent, tips, the endless arithmetic of survival. Liam’s exhaustion sounded like being trapped in a glass box. Plenty of air, no oxygen.
Hudson tried to lighten it. “So let me get this straight. The thing you want most is...anonymity and potatoes?"
Liam’s eyes brightened slightly. “Don’t underestimate potatoes.”
“Never,” Hudson said solemnly. “They’ve carried entire civilizations.”
That got a real laugh, quiet, brief, but real. Liam’s shoulders dropped a fraction, as if his body had been braced all day and had finally remembered how to unclench.
Hudson felt a strange tenderness. Not the swoony kind. The practical kind.
“Okay,” Hudson said, softer. “So you don’t always get what you want.”
Liam’s gaze held his. “No.”
“What do you get?” Hudson asked, then immediately regretted it. Too personal. Too fast.
But Liam considered the question as if it deserved a truthful answer. “I get what people think I want,” he said. “Attention. Access. I get yeses that don’t mean yes.”
Hudson’s brow furrowed. “That sounds...lonely.” Hudson looked down at his hands, then forced himself to look back up.
Liam didn’t answer. He stared at the glass in front of him, watching the condensation slide down the crystal like slow rain.
There was silence for a bit.
And then Liam’s voice resurfaced. “So...apart from my name, do you actually know anything about me?” he asked.
Hudson didn’t hesitate, which was his first mistake. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”
Liam’s eyes narrowed, amused. Like a man who’d spent years learning the difference between truth and performance. “Of course,” Liam repeated softly. “Okay.”
Hudson’s stomach dipped. “Okay.”
Liam leaned forward an inch, resting his forearms on the table. “Then you won’t mind a quick pop quiz.”
Hudson blinked. “A what?”
“A pop quiz,” Liam said, smile widening. “Just to make sure I’m not sitting with a pathological liar.” Hudson tried to laugh. It came out thin. Liam’s gaze glittered. “First question. What was my first movie?”
Hudson opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He tried again. “It was...the one where you...” Liam’s eyebrows lifted in polite encouragement. “You were,” Hudson continued, grasping wildly, “very sad.”
Liam’s smile deepened. “I’ve been very sad in seven films.”
Hudson’s cheeks warmed. “Okay, well, then it was...definitely one of those.”
Liam nodded as if taking notes. “Incredible specificity.”
Hudson held up a hand. “Wait. No. It was…Golden...”
“Golden?” Liam echoed, delighted.
“Golden something.” Hudson leaned back, suddenly defensive. “Look, I don’t keep a spreadsheet.”
Liam’s eyes crinkled. “You said you knew.”
“I do,” Hudson insisted, then immediately ruined it by adding, “Like…conceptually.”
Liam looked as if he might laugh again, but he kept himself composed, which somehow made it worse. “Second question,” Liam said. “Name one character I’ve played.”
Hudson’s brain offered him exactly one name: Liam. Which felt like a trap. So he panicked and said the first thing that sounded like a character and not a man. “Ethan.” Liam stared. Hudson nodded quickly, committing to the lie. “Ethan. Yeah. You were definitely Ethan.”
Liam’s mouth twitched. “I have never been Ethan.”
Hudson’s shoulders slumped. “Okay, see? This is a rigged system.”
Liam sat back, enjoying himself far too much. “Third question. What did I win the Oscar for last year?”
Hudson’s eyes widened. “You won an Oscar last year?”
Liam pressed his lips together, fighting a smile. “Hudson.”
“Listen,” Hudson said, earnest now, “I knew you were famous. I didn’t know you were, like...award season famous.”
Liam laughed quietly at that, but his eyes stayed on Hudson as if he were savoring every second of the slow wreck.
“So,” Liam said, “you don’t actually know.”
Hudson’s jaw tightened. He tried to salvage it with confidence. “I know you act.”
“That’s...true,” Liam admitted.
“And you’re naturally blonde,” Hudson said, catching Liam’s confused squint. “You can always tell by the roots,” he added quickly, pointing at his own in the most adorable way.
“Also true.”
“And you have...a face,” Hudson said, gesturing vaguely.
Liam’s smile softened, just a touch. “That might be the most accurate thing you’ve said so far.”
Hudson exhaled, defeated. “Okay. Fine.” Liam waited. Hudson looked down, then back up, his voice dropping into something more honest. “Your movies aren’t really my thing,” he admitted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be rude.”
Liam’s brow lifted, not offended. “Why would that be rude?”
Hudson shrugged. “Because...I don’t know, people get weird about that. Like you’re supposed to worship famous people, or something.”
That made Liam’s smile return. “So what is your thing?” Liam asked. “If not my tragic cinematic suffering.”
Hudson’s mouth curved. “You mean your very sad seven films?”
Liam pointed at him. “Don’t get brave now.”
Hudson hesitated, then decided he might as well go down with dignity. “I like...queer stuff,” he said plainly. “Movies. Shows. Books.”
Liam blinked, genuinely surprised. “Really.”
Hudson nodded, warming to his own truth, despite himself. “Like, the classics. Not just the ones everyone knows.”
Liam leaned in a fraction, attention sharpening again. “Okay. Hit me.”
Hudson ticked them off on his fingers like he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to ask. “My Beautiful Laundrette,” he said. “Maurice. Weekend. Paris is Burning...okay, fine. I know that’s not technically a movie. Happy Together. God’s Own Country. A Single Man.”
Liam’s eyes widened, a little impressed now. “That’s...some list.”
“I’m not done,” Hudson said, and there was a quiet pride in him, something unexpectedly tender. “Moonlight, obviously. Pride. And I’ve watched Brokeback exactly once because I’m not trying to emotionally die on a Tuesday.”
Liam made a sound halfway between a laugh and agreement. “Valid.”
Hudson continued, momentum building. “Shows too. It’s a Sin. Looking. Heartstopper, when I need to remember the world can be gentle. And don’t even get me started on Heated Rivalry. So good! And...” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “I liked Fellow Travelers even though it hurt. Like, properly hurt.”
Liam watched him with an expression that had shifted into something more still. More engaged. Hudson’s list wasn’t just “gay stuff.” It was thoughtful, curated, emotional. It spoke of a kid who’d been looking for himself in stories for a long time.
“You’re… twenty-two,” Liam said slowly, like he was recalibrating.
Hudson shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I had time.”
Liam’s gaze lingered on him, on his mouth, his eyes, the stubborn honesty in his face, and the teasing eased into softness. “I assumed,” Liam admitted, “you’d say...something. Something you could throw on and forget.”
Hudson’s smile was small. “I don’t really like forgetting.”
Something passed through Liam’s expression, so fast Hudson might’ve missed it if he hadn’t been watching him too. Then Liam’s mouth curved again, half amusement, half awe. “So you lied about knowing me,” Liam said, “but you’re able to sit here and casually cite queer cinema like a pro.”
Hudson lifted his hands. “I contain multitudes.”
Liam’s eyes warmed.
Hudson turned his head, but he was smiling too. That was the problem. Smiling was beginning to feel easy around Liam.
Liam’s smile lingered, but his eyes stayed serious. “Where are you from?”
Hudson hesitated. He usually deflected questions about himself. It was easier to keep the focus on customers. Easier to stay safe.
But Liam had offered a piece of truth first, so it was only fair, really.
“Small town in Arizona,” Hudson said. “So small the most famous person is the guy who owns the bowling alley.”
Liam’s eyes warmed. “That sounds...peaceful, actually.”
“Yeah, well,” Hudson said. “It was also suffocating. Peaceful can be a cage.”
Liam glanced at the iron bars around them, then back at Hudson. “You got away.”
Hudson shrugged. “I ran. Same thing.”
Liam nodded slowly, like he understood running. Like he’d been running in a different direction for years.
“And you?” Hudson asked. “Where are you from?”
Liam’s guard rails rose, subtle but visible. He smiled, easy again. “Everywhere. Nowhere. Remember?”
Hudson rolled his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I got,” Liam said, then leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a murmur. “Besides...I like you not knowing everything about me.”
Hudson stared at him.
Then he let his gaze travel over Liam’s face, the ridiculously perfect curve of his mouth, the sharp line of his cheekbone, the tired softness at the corner of his eyes that he was sure no billboard ever captured.
Hudson’s pen tapped once against the table, an anxious little heartbeat of an object. Then he stood abruptly, because if he didn’t stand, he might do something reckless. Like reach across the table and maybe find out whether Liam’s warmth was real.
“I’m going to get your fries,” Hudson said, voice rougher than before, already squeezing himself off the box.
Liam leaned back, pleased with himself. “Hey, Hudson?”
Hudson stopped without turning. “Yeah?”
Liam’s tone turned teasing again, but there was something tender beneath it now, like a hand resting lightly at the base of Hudson’s spine. “Don’t take too long,” Liam said. “I’m starving.”
Hudson glanced back over his shoulder, smile softening despite himself as he rushed toward the kitchen. He’d made it exactly three steps into the hallway toward the kitchen before the restaurant swallowed him whole. The service door swung, and then a hand hooked his elbow.
“HUDSON.”
He barely had time to register the voice before he was yanked behind a stack of clean trays and a shelf of ramekins like they were ducking gunfire.
His friend Tessa, one of the servers, mid-twenties, eyeliner sharp, ponytail bouncing like it had its own anxiety. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes wide, expression vibrating between delight and hysteria.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, loud. “Oh my God.”
Hudson blinked at her. “If this is about table twelve, I already refilled their...”
“Not table twelve,” Tessa hissed. “Table Cage.”
Hudson’s stomach dipped. His eyes immediately snapped past her shoulder, searching for the sliver of dining room visible through the swing door window. Liam sat alone now, shoulders angled toward the wall, chin slightly lowered, fingers around that ridiculous “invisibility” drink.
Hudson’s gaze lingered a second too long.
Tessa followed it. Of course she did. “Ohhhhh,” she breathed, as if she’d just discovered a rare animal in captivity. “He’s beautiful in person. Like...like someone drew him.”
Hudson tried for casual. He failed so hard it was almost impressive. “He’s just...a guy,” Hudson said, voice too flat.
Tessa grabbed his forearm, nails digging lightly through his sleeve. “A guy? Hudson. That is Liam “fucking” Hart. That’s not a guy. That’s a cultural event. That’s...that’s insured cheekbones.”
Hudson pried his arm gently free. “I need fries.”
“You need details.” Tessa planted herself in front of him like a human barricade. “What did he say? Why is he here? Was he rude? Was he...” Her eyes narrowed, hungry for scandal. “...was he flirting?”
Hudson stared at her. “He asked for invisibility.”
Tessa gasped like Hudson had just confessed to murder. “That’s code.”
“It’s not code,” Hudson said. “It’s...literally what he wanted.”
Tessa’s face twisted. “No. Men don’t ask for invisibility unless they’re hiding from something. Paparazzi. A wife. A mistress.”
Hudson’s eyes flicked again to the door window. Liam shifted in the booth, leaning back, scanning the room like someone listening for footsteps behind him. The cage suddenly looked less like décor and more like a small, gilded trap. Hudson swallowed.
Tessa snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Hudson. Focus. What happened in there?”
“Nothing happened,” Hudson insisted, which was technically true if you ignored the fact that his pulse was still trying to escape his body. “I almost spilled his drink, he made a joke, I made a joke, and then I left to get fries.”
Tessa’s mouth fell open. “You joked with him?”
“It was...reflex.”
Tessa grabbed the counter for support, as if she might faint. “You joked with Liam Hart. Hudson, I say ‘enjoy your meal’ and my voice cracks. I called Jason Momoa ‘sir’ once, and I’ve never recovered.” Hudson tried to slide past her. She pivoted, blocking him again with the speed of a trained athlete. “Okay,” she whispered, “so...between us...he’s straight, right?”
Hudson stopped, mid-step. “What?”
Tessa rolled her eyes. “He’s dated, like, every model in Los Angeles.”
Hudson felt his face do something strange, half confusion, half skepticism. “Has he?”
Tessa leaned in, thrilled to deliver the sermon of celebrity gossip. “Hudson. He was with that influencer for like three seconds, then the singer...no, wait, the actress. People say he’s dating Sloane Carver now.”
Hudson frowned. “Who?”
Tessa stared at him as if he’d asked what a fork was. “Sloane Carver. The actress. The one who plays the chaotic best friend in literally every rom-com. She has the dimples and the veneers and the PR team that’s basically the military.”
Hudson blinked. “How do you know any of this?”
Tessa pointed at her own head. “I have a brain, Hudson. I use it for important things. Like celebrity timelines.”
Hudson’s confusion deepened. He looked back through the window again. Nothing about Liam in that moment screamed “rom-com actress boyfriend.” He looked tired. Guarded.
Hudson’s voice came out quieter. “Maybe he’s not dating her.”
Tessa scoffed. “Oh my God, are you defending him already? Hudson. You’re not immune to famous people. Nobody is. That’s how they get you. They look at you for two seconds, and suddenly you want to be their emotional support barista.”
Hudson snorted despite himself. “I’m not defending him.”
Tessa’s eyes glittered. “Then why are you looking at the door like that?”
Hudson grabbed a basket from the clean stack and pretended it was the only thing keeping him upright. “Jesus...” he began, then stopped because denying it too hard would sound exactly like what it was: a lie.
Tessa’s grin spread. “Oh, this is delicious.”
Hudson lifted his hands. “Please don’t make this weird.”
“Oh, it’s weird,” Tessa whispered. “It’s so weird. And I love it.” She grabbed his sleeve again, tugging him toward the fry station. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get him his fries. We can’t have Liam Hart hungry. He’ll go on Jimmy Fallon and talk about how this restaurant starved him, and then we’ll all lose our jobs.”
Hudson slid a basket into the fryer with unnecessary force. “That’s not how it works.”
“That’s exactly how everything works,” Tessa said, eyes gleaming. “Also...did he ask about me?”
Hudson stared. “No.”
Tessa clutched her chest. “Thank God. Because I would have passed away.” The fries sizzled, oil popping like tiny applause. Tessa leaned in again. “Okay, but seriously. Was he...like...nice?” Hudson hesitated. Tessa’s expression softened, just a touch, a brief moment of sincerity beneath the comedy. “People say he’s a jerk,” she added.
Hudson glanced at the window again. “He was...normal,” Hudson said finally. “For someone not normal.”
Tessa blinked. “That’s the weirdest compliment I’ve ever heard.”
The timer beeped. Hudson yanked the basket up, shook it, dumped the fries into a steel bowl, and salted them as if warding off evil spirits.
Tessa inhaled dramatically. “Okay. Showtime.”
Hudson grabbed the fries, turned, and collided with the manager.
Elliot stood there. Late thirties. Crisp shirt. Clipboard like a weapon. Eyes sharp like a lie detector. Hudson’s stomach dropped straight through the floor. Elliot didn’t even acknowledge Tessa. He looked straight at Hudson.
Hudson’s mouth opened automatically. “I’m sorry,” he started, fries in hand. “I shouldn’t have been sitting...”
Elliot lifted a hand, gaze flicked toward the swing door window, toward the cage, toward Liam Hart sitting alone. Then he looked back at Hudson with a strange kind of satisfaction.
“You are chained to that table,” Elliot said, voice low, clipped.
Hudson blinked. “Chained,” he repeated, dumbly. “Like...metaphorically?”
Elliot’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it sharpened his patience to a blade.
“Literally if you want,” Elliot said. “I can find rope in the back. Don’t test me.”
Tessa made a choking sound that might’ve been a laugh disguised as a cough.
Hudson leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Elliot, I’m not...I was just...he asked me to...”
Elliot cut him off with a small lift of his hand. Like he was trimming fat from a steak. “I don’t give a fuck what he asked,” Elliot said. “If Liam Hart walks out of here unhappy, you won’t be walking out of here employed.”
Hudson stared. “That’s...not fair.”
Elliot’s eyes flicked over Hudson’s face, cataloguing his sincerity like an ingredient list. “Hudson,” Elliot said, slowly, “do you know what happens if Liam Hart says one nice thing about this place?” Hudson opened his mouth, then closed it again. Elliot continued. “Do you know what happens if he posts a photo? If he mentions us in an interview? If any of those wolves outside catch him eating here, and the internet decides we are ‘his favorite hiding spot’?”
Tessa whispered, reverent, “We become...legend.”
Elliot didn’t even glance at her. “We become booked solid for six months,” he said. “The joint the city fights to get inside. A line around the block. A payroll that doesn’t make me wake up at three a.m. sweating.”
Hudson held up the fries slightly, helpless. “I just brought him...”
Elliot leaned in, his voice dropping. “You brought him fries,” Elliot said. “Now you bring him a good time.”
Hudson’s eyebrows shot up. “I...what?”
Elliot’s stare was flat. “A service experience, Hudson. Don’t make it weird.”
Hudson exhaled through his nose, trying to find the line between panic and sarcasm without tripping. “You already suggested rope.”
Elliot’s mouth twitched as if he were almost smiling, then remembered he was a manager and therefore couldn’t. “I’m serious,” Elliot said. “You were sitting with him. He was smiling. Whatever you did, go back there and do it again.”
Hudson glanced instinctively toward the swing door window again.
Liam’s shoulders were set, but his gaze kept drifting toward the entrance, toward the idea of escape. His fingers tapped lightly against the glass like the rhythm of a thought he couldn’t shut off. Hudson felt something he hadn’t expected: a strange, protective urgency. Not because of Elliot. Because Liam looked like he was counting down to disappearance.
“I didn’t do anything,” Hudson muttered.
Elliot’s eyes narrowed. “Then do nothing again. Only...keep him here.”
Hudson looked at him, incredulous. “You want me to babysit the most famous man in the room?”
Elliot’s expression went very still. “Listen carefully,” he said. “If he leaves before he’s done eating, if he looks even slightly annoyed, if he asks for a different server, if he...”
Hudson cut in, voice rising despite himself. “If he blinks wrong, you’ll fire me.”
Elliot nodded once. “Yes.”
Tessa, behind them, mouthed 'oh my God' with the joy of someone witnessing chaos and not being the main character.
Hudson clenched his jaw. “This is ridiculous.” Elliot didn’t flinch. Hudson stared at the fries again, as if they might contain guidance. “So what,” Hudson said, “I’m supposed to sit there and entertain him? Do a little song and dance?”
“If you can juggle,” Elliot said, deadpan, “now is the time.”
Hudson looked to Tessa for help. She gave him a thumbs up and whispered, “If you die, I’m taking your shifts.”
Hudson shut his eyes briefly. “Fine,” he said, surrendering to the absurd.
Elliot leaned back, satisfied. “Good.” Hudson took one step toward the door. “And Hudson?” he added, casually, like he was discussing napkins. Hudson stopped. Elliot’s eyes locked on him. “If he walks, you’re done.”
Hudson pushed through the swing door. As he approached the cage, he caught the flicker of movement outside the windows. The wolves still paced. Liam lifted his head the moment Hudson neared, eyes finding him with an immediate, almost involuntary relief. Hudson’s chest tightened, and he hated that he felt it. Hated that it was so easy.
He forced his face into something lighter. Something safe. “Good news,” Hudson said, sliding back into the cage.
Liam’s mouth curved faintly. “You survived.”
“Barely,” Hudson replied, setting the fries down in front of him with exaggerated care. “I had to fight a small war in the kitchen. There were casualties.”
Liam’s eyes softened. “What kind of casualties?”
Hudson glanced over his shoulder, toward the kitchen, and then back to Liam. “My freedom,” Hudson said, under his breath.
Liam reached for the fries then.
He lifted one between his fingers, long, clean, almost elegant hands for something as dumb and perfect as fried potatoes, and brought it to his mouth.
Hudson watched.
He initially meant to watch for signs of stress, for the twitch that said I’m leaving, for the way Liam’s gaze might dart toward the door. He meant to be attentive because Elliot’s threat still ticked in the back of his skull like an alarm.
But the moment Liam bit down, it stopped being a job.
It became, ridiculously, embarrassingly, something else.
Liam’s mouth closed around the fry, and Hudson’s mind went quiet. There was something almost sacramental about the act: the subtle flex of Liam’s jaw, the faint shift at his throat as he swallowed, the way his eyelashes lowered. His lips, soft-looking, slightly parted between bites, were made for a camera, yes, but they were also made for far more intimate things, and Hudson’s brain betrayed him by imagining all of them at once. He saw the salt on Liam’s fingertips. The sheen of oil on the fry. The way Liam wiped his thumb against his lower lip without thinking.
Hudson’s pulse slowed, then raced.
It wasn’t pornographic. It wasn’t even, strictly speaking, rational.
It was simply the unbearable fact of another person enjoying something, right in front of him, in a way that felt both innocent and deeply suggestive. Liam had spent the night trying to become invisible, but eating the fries like that, unselfconscious, briefly unguarded, made him more present than any billboard of his Hudson had driven past.
He realized, with a jolt, that he was staring. Hard.
Liam’s voice cut through Hudson’s trance like a hand snapping close to his face. “Are you okay?”
Hudson blinked. His cheeks warmed instantly. “I’m fine,” he said too fast.
Liam’s brow lifted. “Right,” he replied, leaning back slightly, eyes bright with mischief now. Hudson felt the shift, the way Liam nudged the moment away from the edge of something, back into safer territory. “Okay,” Liam said, drawing the word out. “So, Hudson from Arizona. Did you come to L.A. to seek fame?”
Hudson made a small sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t gotten stuck halfway. “No.”
Liam blinked, genuinely surprised. “No?”
Hudson shrugged, and it looked like surrender. “I just needed to leave.”
Liam’s smile faltered. He didn’t push, but he didn’t look away either. Hudson’s gaze dropped to the basket of fries like the truth might be easier to say to salt than to Liam’s golden brown eyes.
“It just wasn’t...” Hudson said, voice cracking slightly. He tried again, simpler. “I was tired of being someone I wasn’t.”
Liam’s expression changed. The playfulness faded. The guardrails stayed, but his attention sharpened into something intensely present.
Hudson let out a breath. “So no. Not fame.”
“What, then?” Liam asked, gently.
Hudson lifted his eyes. The words came out stripped down, almost plain. “A place to breathe,” he said.
For a moment, Liam just looked at him. Something in his face softened, an almost imperceptible slackening at the eyes.
Then Liam’s smile returned, but this time it was different. Less sharp. “You’re an anomaly,” he said.
Hudson’s brow furrowed. “That sounds like an insult.”
“It’s not,” Liam said. “It’s...rare. Everyone in this town is trying to get ahead. Trying to find a shortcut to becoming someone. But you...” he said.
Hudson forced a grin,cutting Liam. Embarrassed by the sincerity. “I’m not that noble.”
“I didn’t say noble,” Liam declared. His eyes flicked over Hudson. “I said rare.”
Hudson opened his mouth, then closed it. To break the moment, Hudson nodded at the fries, because fries were safe. “Are they good?” he asked stupidly, as if he hadn’t just gotten hard watching Liam chew them.
Liam’s mouth tipped up. “They’re incredible.”
Hudson exhaled, relieved by the return of something simple.
Liam lifted the basket slightly. “Want some?”
Hudson’s instinct was to refuse, to retreat back into the role of server, to keep the boundary where it belonged. But his apology had already formed before he could stop it.
“I’m sorry,” Hudson blurted. “I didn’t mean to...I’m not trying to...”
Liam’s eyes softened again. “Hudson.” Hudson stopped mid-spiral, meeting his gaze. Liam nudged the basket closer. “Eat the fucking fries.”
Hudson hesitated. His fingers hovered. Then he snorted and finally took a fry.
Their hands didn’t touch, but the air between them did.
Hudson ate.
Salt. Heat. Oil. The ridiculous comfort of something cheap and perfect.
Liam watched him for a second. Hudson forced himself to look down, to chew like a normal person, but his awareness stayed locked on Liam’s quiet presence, his breathing, his gaze drifting back to Hudson.
They shared the fries in a strange, charged hush.
Not awkward. Not exactly comfortable either.
Certainly attentive.
Their eyes met now and then, briefly, then slipped away again as if both of them were pretending they didn’t know what was happening.
Time moved without anyone touching it.
At some point, minutes, hours later, who knew, Hudson noticed the restaurant had shifted.
The noise had thinned. Chairs were being turned upside down on a few tables near the far wall. The bartender wiped down the counter. Outside the windows, the shadows had scattered. Probably bored or defeated.
Hudson glanced around, then back at Liam. Liam followed Hudson’s gaze, his expression tightening. His fingers tapped once on the table. His shoulders drew in slightly beneath the hoodie, like a reflex.
Then he exhaled and said, quietly but decisively, “Yeah. This isn’t working for me.”
Hudson’s stomach dropped. “What?” he asked, panic flashing through him.
Liam didn’t look at Hudson when he lifted his hand. He raised it toward the front, palm angled up in an elegant gesture that said I want someone in charge.
“Liam...” Hudson started, voice cracking around the name.
Liam’s eyes flicked to him, quick, unreadable. Guard rails snapping back into place.
Then Liam turned his gaze past Hudson and called. “Excuse me.”
Elliot arrived at the cage. He didn’t even look at Liam first. He went straight to Hudson. Mouth tightened. His eyes flicked down: fries half-finished, Hudson’s notepad abandoned, the emptying dining room beyond the bars. “Hudson,” he said, quiet, lethal. “A word.”
Hudson was already composing the apology in his head. But before he could stand, Liam spoke.
“You’re the manager, right?” he said.
Elliot’s attention snapped to Liam like a magnet had found its north.
“Yes, sir,” he replied immediately, and the words came out too quickly, too eager, hospitality kneeling at the altar of celebrity.
Liam didn’t react to the “sir.” He simply rested his forearms on the table, fingers lightly touching the edge of the fry basket, and looked up at Elliot. “I’m going to ask you for something,” Liam said.
Elliot’s expression softened into performance mode. “Anything we can do to make your evening better.”
Hudson watched Liam closely, watched the subtle shift in him: the way his shoulders aligned, the way his voice found its trained steadiness. Guard rails sliding into place. Not defensive, exactly. Controlled.
It was about the hottest thing he’d ever seen.
Liam nodded once, as if confirming a decision. “I want you to close the restaurant,” he said.
The sentence landed like a dropped plate.
For a beat, Elliot didn’t move. He actually blinked, as if his brain had refused to translate what his ears had just heard. “Close...the restaurant,” Elliot repeated.
“Yes,” Liam said. “Send everyone home.”
Hudson’s eyes widened. His mouth parted. He looked at Liam, then at Elliot, convinced he’d misheard.
Elliot let out a small, startled laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all, more like a glitch in his perfect little manager matrix. “I...I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Liam’s gaze didn’t harden, but it sharpened. “It’s late. You’ve already begun closing. I’d like you to finish the job now.”
Elliot tried to regroup, hands lifting in a placating motion. “Of course, but, sir...there are still guests. We can’t just...”
Liam tipped his head, polite as a host. “Would you like me to buy the remaining tables their meals?”
Elliot froze again.
Liam continued, in a gentle, almost conversational tone. “Or would you like me to call my publicist and ask her to post a thank-you to your restaurant for providing a safe place to eat without being photographed? We can include your hours. Your location. Your reservation number.”
Elliot’s face shifted, his ambition lighting up like a match, and then he caught himself, remembering he was supposed to be in charge. Hudson could see Elliot’s inner math: the cost of closing versus the value of a single mention.
Liam’s expression remained pleasant. “I’m not asking to cause you trouble,” Liam said. “I’m asking because I’m tired. And because your staff deserves to go home.”
Elliot swallowed. “We have payroll, sir. People depend on...”
Liam’s smile warmed by a fraction, the way it did when he wanted to appear kind. “I’ll cover their tips for the night,” Liam said.
Elliot’s jaw dropped slightly before he caught it. “That’s...that’s not necessary.”
“It is,” Liam said, still soft. “I insist.”
Hudson stared at Liam with stunned disbelief.
Elliot glanced around, eyes darting to the bar, to the remaining two tables, to the kitchen doors. He looked like a man trying to hold onto control with fingers that were already slipping. “Maybe,” Elliot said, recovering a little, “we could move you to a more private area. The office, perhaps. Or...”
Liam’s gaze flicked to Hudson then. “I’m already in a private area,” Liam said. Hudson’s stomach flipped. Liam returned his attention to Elliot. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”
Elliot nodded too quickly, eager again. “Of course. Absolutely. Hudson will...”
“No,” Liam said.
The word wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It cut cleanly through Elliot’s momentum.
Elliot blinked. “Sir?”
Liam’s voice stayed calm, almost idle. “You’re hovering. It’s...annoying.”
Elliot’s mouth opened, then closed.
Liam continued, still polite, still soft. “I came here because I wanted to be left alone,” Liam said. “But I couldn’t help noticing you threatening my server over whether I seemed happy enough.”
Hudson’s heart stopped.
Elliot went pale in an instant. “Sir, I...” he swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean...I was only trying to ensure you had...”
“An experience?” Liam supplied gently.
Elliot’s eyes flickered. “Yes, sir.”
Liam’s smile was almost kind. Almost.
“I am,” Liam said. “Just not the one you’re trying to sell me.”
Hudson felt heat climb his neck, part embarrassment, part vindication, part something dangerously close to esteem.
Elliot’s voice tightened. “We pride ourselves on hospitality.”
“And I appreciate it,” Liam said smoothly. “Which is why I’m giving you an opportunity to show it.”
Elliot’s brow furrowed. “By...closing?”
Liam nodded once. “By closing.”
Hudson stared at the table. His fingers clenched under it. At this point, he was having difficulty breathing properly.
Elliot’s jaw worked like he was chewing on humiliation.
Liam leaned back, casual again, and somehow that casualness made the power sharper.
“So here’s how this is going to work,” Liam said. “You’re going to close the restaurant. You’re going to send everyone home. You can tell them it was my request and that I’m covering the tips. You will look generous, which I’m sure you’ll enjoy. I will look grateful. Your staff will look rested tomorrow. And...”
Elliot swallowed. “And...?”
“And,” Liam continued, as if Elliot hadn’t spoken, “Hudson will stay.”
Hudson’s head snapped up. “What?”
Liam looked at him then, really looked. And there it was, beneath the composure: that ease Hudson kept pulling out of him, that strange, unasked-for softness. “I want him to stay,” Liam said simply.
Elliot’s eyes darted between them. “Sir,” Elliot said, trying to regain footing, “it’s not appropriate for staff to...”
Liam’s gaze drifted to Elliot’s clipboard with calm disdain. “Appropriate,” he echoed. “I think you’ve mistaken your authority for moral concern.”
Elliot stiffened. “That’s not...”
Liam cut in, still courteous. “If you’re worried about liability, I’ll sign whatever waiver you’d like. If you’re worried about optics, there will be none, because you’re closing your restaurant.”
Elliot’s throat bobbed.
“And if you’re worried,” Liam added, “about whether Hudson is capable of managing the rest...then perhaps you’ve hired poorly.”
Hudson felt a startled, helpless laugh rise in his chest and quickly smothered it. This was not the time to laugh. But Liam was doing it, humiliating Elliot without ever raising his voice, with manners so immaculate the knife barely showed.
Elliot’s cheeks flushed a deep red. “Hudson is a good server,” he said, strained.
“I already know that,” Liam replied easily. “That’s why I’m keeping him.”
Elliot stood there, trembling between yes and no, between pride and profit. Liam waited, patient, calm, utterly certain.
Finally, Elliot’s shoulders dipped. The fight leaked out of him. “Alright,” he said. “We’ll close.”
Liam’s smile returned, effortless. “Thank you.”
Elliot nodded stiffly, then pivoted away with the brittle speed of a man who needed distance before his composure broke.
The closing happened the way storms sometimes did in Los Angeles, fast, theatrical, and with everyone pretending it was normal.
The last two tables were still eating when Elliot approached them with that stiff, managerial smile that usually meant We’re out of your favorite wine or You can’t split the check seventeen ways. He leaned in, murmured, gestured with his clipboard, and the guests blinked up at him as if he’d announced the building was being moved to another zip code. Within minutes, the guests were funneled toward the door, still clutching their coats and in confusion. A few tried to peek back, pulling their necks like a leash. One guy actually whispered, not quietly, “Is this, like...a private event? Did we just get kicked out for being poor?”
In the kitchen, the line cooks emerged one by one, drawn out by the ripple of rumor. They crowded the pass like a flock of skeptical birds.
Tessa, of course, didn’t even pretend subtlety. She stood in the doorway, arms folded, staring at the cage. Hudson caught her eye as she mouthed: WHAT IS HAPPENING?
Hudson lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug as his face went hot.
The staff filed out, collecting bags and jackets with the slow, stunned movements of people leaving a movie halfway through and not wanting to admit they were invested.
Elliot was the last to go.
He lingered near the door as if he expected Liam to change his mind and save him from this humiliation. He made one final pass through the dining room, straightening a chair that didn’t need straightening, adjusting a menu that no one was reading, performing usefulness to ward off his irrelevance. Then he looked toward the cage, long enough for Hudson to feel his resentment burn through the back of his neck.
The latch clicked.
Silence struck.
Inside the cage, Liam didn’t move. He watched Hudson. The fries sat between them, forgotten. The crystal glass, sweating quietly, settled onto the table.
Then Liam spoke, voice low in the new quiet. “Lock the door,” he said.
Hudson’s heart gave a hard, foolish knock against his ribs. He didn’t ask why. Something about Liam’s tone made questions feel overrated. So he stood, stepped out of the cage, and walked to the front door. He felt Liam’s gaze on his back the entire time. Hudson reached the door and slid the lock. The mechanism turned with a clean, final click. He rested his hand against it for a brief second, palm flat. Then, he turned.
Liam hadn’t moved. He sat in the cage, shoulders angled back, chin slightly lifted, eyes pinned to Hudson with unsettling patience.
Hudson walked back slowly.
When he reached the cage, he slipped inside and sat down again across from Liam.
Now they were alone. Not like “alone in a crowd,” not “alone while the world pressed its face to the glass,” but alone, “alone.
They stared at each other.
Hudson tried to hold it, tried to match Liam’s calm. He lasted three seconds.
Then a nervous chuckle broke out of him, like steam escaping a kettle.
Liam didn’t laugh.
He didn’t even smile.
His eyes stayed on Hudson’s, and something in that steadiness made Hudson’s laughter peter out into silence. His mouth closed, suddenly aware of his own lips, his own breathing, the way his hands rested on the table like they didn’t know what to do with themselves.
That’s when Liam’s gaze began to wander.
Not in a casual way. Not scanning the room. Not distracted. It moved over Hudson’s face, tracing his mouth, lips red from salt and heat and the constant, unconscious habit of pressing them together.
Then Liam looked up, into Hudson’s eyes. Turquoise, vivid, like water that still remembered the sky. Liam held them, studying, slowly learning a color he’d never seen before.
Then his gaze drifted again. To Hudson’s hair, raven-black, curling where it refused to behave, a strand falling forward. To his jaw, clean-cut and tense, the muscle there shifting once as he swallowed.
Hudson sat very still, caught between wanting to look away and wanting to be looked at.
Heat slid low in his body, quiet, insistent. Not in a frantic way. Or crude. He tried to rescue himself with humor, because humor was his oldest defense and sometimes his only weapon.
He cleared his throat and forced a grin. “So,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the empty restaurant, the locked door, the absurdity of it all. “Guess you were lying earlier.”
A faint change touched Liam’s mouth.
Hudson latched onto it, relieved. “Apparently, you do always get what you want.”
This time, Liam’s smile arrived, small and slow, traveling what seemed like a long way to reach his face.
He leaned back in the booth, letting one arm stretch along the seat again. His eyes stayed on Hudson’s.
“Maybe,” Liam said softly.
Hudson’s grin wavered. “Maybe?”
Liam’s smile sharpened just a touch, mischief returning, but threaded with something else that made Hudson’s pulse jump.
“It’ll depend,” Liam said, voice quiet as velvet.
“On what?” Hudson asked.
Liam smiled. His chest inhaled once, expanding slowly before finally exhaling.
“On you,” he replied.
Hudson and Liam’s story doesn’t end here. If you’re reading along, I’d love to hear from you.
Leave a comment with your thoughts, feedback, and your favorite moment. Your feedback is appreciated.
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