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.
"What Did You Lose?"
Liam sat at the counsel table with his hands folded, posture straight, face calm. The borrowed suit still didn't quite fit, too narrow at the shoulders, sleeves too short, but he wore it anyway. His jaw stayed clenched, a single muscle working along his cheek as if he were chewing on something poisonous and refusing to swallow it.
Hudson sat one row behind him, just out of the main line of sight. He kept his hands together in his lap because if he didn't, he suspected they'd start shaking. Every now and then, his gaze drifted to Liam's back, the line of his neck, the way Liam held himself so controlled it looked painful.
Hudson wanted to touch him.
He didn't.
Not here.
Evelyn's associate, Raj, rose when the judge nodded to him.
"Your Honor," Raj began, "this is a narrow request. We are asking for immediate interim relief that allows Mr. Hart access to basic transparency and limited disclosures so he can understand what is being done in his name."
Marina's counsel, an older man with a soft voice that masked sharpened edges, stood without hurry.
"Objection, Your Honor. Characterization," he said, pleasant as a weather report. "There is no evidence anyone is doing anything in his name unlawfully. These are protective structures."
The judge, a woman with an expression that made it impossible to know if she was bored or furious, glanced down at her notes. "Overruled," she said. "Mr. Patel may characterize his own motion. I can weigh credibility."
Raj gave a single nod, grateful but not relieved. "The issue," Raj continued, "is that the protective structures being cited are presently functioning as leverage. Mr. Hart's loan-out company disbursements have been held. Signatory authority has been exercised to restrict liquidity. The trustee has acted on information filtered through an interested intermediary."
The opposing counsel smiled faintly. "An experienced intermediary."
Raj didn't take the bait. "An interested intermediary," he repeated.
Marina's attorney stepped forward, hands open as if he were offering reason. "Your Honor, the petitioner's counsel wants you to treat ordinary industry practice as predation. Loan-out structures are standard. Management administration agreements are standard. Trust discretion is standard. These exist because individuals with high earnings require asset protection and...yes, guardrails."
Hudson felt Liam's spine go rigid at the word.
Guardrails.
It sounded so benevolent when spoken by someone who had never been caged by them.
Evelyn, seated beside Raj, leaned forward slightly. "Standard does not mean ethical," she said quietly, not rising, just letting the words cut through.
Marina's counsel turned toward her like he'd been waiting. "Ms. Grant," he said, almost fondly, "this court is not the place to litigate the morality of entertainment finance."
Evelyn's eyes didn't blink. "Then it's the place to litigate whether a structure is being abused," she replied.
The judge raised a hand. "One at a time."
Raj continued, grounding the argument in concrete terms. "We propose a clean signatory structure pending review," he said. "Court-approved. Neutral. No commingling. No unilateral control. Specifically, an independent trustee or neutral administrator to oversee interim access and disclosures. We are requesting the removal of Ms. Velluto's signatory access pending review, because her company is currently serving as an administrative choke point."
Marina's counsel's smile sharpened. "You mean to remove the person who has competently managed his affairs for..."
"Fourteen years," Marina supplied in a voice that was soft and utterly strategic. It was the first time she spoke, and the sound of it changed the room.
The judge's gaze slid to her. "Ms. Velluto, your counsel will speak for you."
Marina's lips curved in apology that wasn't an apology. She sat back, hands folded again, perfect.
Her attorney stepped in smoothly to cover the moment. "Your Honor, this is an extraordinary request based on ordinary conflict. Mr. Hart has had a...turbulent period. There have been incidents. Disappearances. Erratic conduct. These measures were triggered to prevent impulsive decisions that could cause irreversible harm to his estate and contractual obligations."
Hudson's nails dug into his palm.
He forced them to stop.
Raj's voice stayed steady. "Your Honor, that phrasing is precisely the problem. 'Erratic conduct' has become a catchall justification to override an adult's autonomy without due process."
The opposing counsel lifted his eyebrows. "Due process? He is here. In court. Asking for relief. That is due process."
Evelyn finally stood. She moved slowly. "Your Honor," Evelyn said, "the question is not whether Mr. Hart has had a difficult period. The question is whether that has been weaponized by a party with a financial incentive to frame him as unstable."
Marina's counsel's smile thinned. "You are implying motive without basis."
Evelyn held his gaze. "The basis is the structure," she said. "The basis is the contract language. The basis is the flow of funds." She tapped a page in their binder and continued, voice crisp. "Under the administration agreement, Ms. Velluto's company sits between studio payments and disbursements to Mr. Hart's personal accounts and trust. That intermediary position is not inherently illegal. But when that intermediary can withhold funds 'in its sole discretion'..."
Marina's counsel cut in, "Within reasonable bounds..."
"...then access becomes leverage," Evelyn finished without raising her voice. "And when leverage is used to compel compliance with PR and project choices, we are no longer in the realm of stewardship. It's coercion."
A flicker moved across Marina's face. It wasn't fear. It was irritation, like someone had finally named the trick.
The judge's pen paused. "Counsel," she said to Marina's attorney, "address the allegation of coercion."
Marina's attorney offered a practiced shrug. "The petitioner is speculating. No one has compelled anything. Ms. Velluto's concern is Mr. Hart's well-being and his contractual obligations."
Raj stepped in immediately. "Then there should be no objection to transparency," he said. "If all decisions have been made in good faith, limited disclosures should be harmless."
Marina's counsel turned to the judge, voice butter-smooth. "Harmless? Your Honor, financial transparency in an active dispute can be weaponized. This is a high-profile individual. Disclosures risk leaks, press manipulation, and reputational harm. We are protecting not only the trust but the person."
Hudson could feel Liam's anger like heat. Liam still didn't move. Still didn't speak.
The judge looked at Liam. "Mr. Hart," she said, "I'm going to ask you a question."
Liam's gaze lifted. "Yes, Your Honor."
"Are you asking for unrestricted access to your entire estate?"
"No."
The judge's eyes narrowed. "What are you asking for?"
Liam's voice remained steady, but beneath it was something raw, a clarity that didn't perform.
"I'm asking to see my own life," he said. "In plain terms. Without someone else deciding what I'm allowed to know."
Marina's counsel interjected gently. "He has always had access through proper channels."
Liam's eyes flickered toward him. "Proper channels," he echoed.
Then he looked back at the judge. "Your Honor...when you live like I've lived, the 'proper channels' are the channels that keep you compliant."
Silence clipped through the room.
The judge studied him carefully. "You understand," she said, "that the court cannot untangle decades of financial structure in a preliminary hearing."
"Yes."
"And you understand," she continued, "that if I grant interim relief, it will come with conditions. Clean signatory structure. Independent oversight. Protective order. Limited disclosures."
"Yes."
Marina's counsel stepped forward, urgency creeping into his politeness. "Your Honor, even an interim shift could trigger contractual consequences. Credit facility covenants. Loan defaults. Studio delivery obligations. This petition risks destabilizing the very assets Mr. Hart depends on."
Raj didn't flinch. "Respectfully," he said, "those covenants and obligations are precisely why Mr. Hart needs transparency now. If his facility is being 'called,' he needs the ability to respond without an interested party filtering the information. We are asking for oxygen, not a victory lap."
Evelyn added, "And we are prepared to establish the clean structure immediately. We have candidates for a neutral administrator and an independent trustee. We can file proposed orders within twenty-four hours."
Marina's counsel raised a hand. "And who pays for this neutral administrator? Who pays for the trustee? Who pays for the added oversight?"
Evelyn's response was crisp. "The estate can pay, under court supervision."
Marina's counsel smiled again, thin. "So the estate pays to remove the person who..." he glanced toward Marina, "...has devoted her professional life to protecting it. That is not equitable."
The judge leaned back, eyes distant for a moment as she considered the warring arguments like weights in her hands.
Hudson watched Liam's profile, trying to read something in the stillness. Liam didn't look at Hudson. Liam looked at the judge like a man balancing on a ledge, willing himself not to fall.
The judge finally spoke, voice measured. "I'm not persuaded," she said slowly, "that maintaining the status quo is benign."
Marina's counsel's smile froze.
"I am also not persuaded," the judge continued, "that the petitioner is entitled to wholesale control at this stage."
Raj nodded, bracing.
The judge tapped her pen once. "However." The room held its breath. "Transparency is not control," the judge said. "Limited disclosures under a protective order can be structured to minimize risk. And interim removal of signatory access, pending review, may be appropriate where there is credible concern that access is being used as leverage."
Marina's attorney began, "Your Honor..."
The judge lifted her hand. "I'm not finished." She looked directly at Liam. "Mr. Hart, if the court grants temporary transparency and limited disclosures, you will establish a clean signatory structure immediately. Independent trustee or neutral administrator. Documented and court-supervised. No informal channels. No side arrangements."
Liam's voice was quiet. "Yes, Your Honor."
The judge's gaze slid to Marina's counsel. "And Ms. Velluto's signatory authority will be removed from the entities described in the motion pending review, so long as the petitioner complies with the clean structure conditions."
Marina's counsel's face remained composed, but Hudson saw the flicker, panic buried under professionalism.
The judge began laying out the terms: time frames, protective orders, the limited scope of disclosures, and the requirement that proposed administrators be vetted. The words sounded dry. Procedural. But to Hudson, they sounded like a door unlatching.
And still Liam didn't smile.
He didn't look triumphant.
He sat there as if he'd been underwater for a very long time and someone had finally cracked the surface.
When the judge finished and moved on to scheduling, Liam's shoulders dropped by the tiniest fraction. An exhale, slow, unsteady, like oxygen had been returned to him.
Out of everyone's view, Liam's hand drifted back and found Hudson's fingers.
He squeezed once.
Hard.
*
(Weeks Later)
Hudson lay on his back, one arm tucked under his head, the other stretched toward Liam. Liam lay beside him, turned on his side, watching Hudson's face. He looked younger in the dark, softer around the edges, even with the tension still living in his jaw.
For five whole seconds, the apartment was quiet.
Then, from the other room.
"OH...YES...Fuck, yes!"
Hudson blinked.
Liam's eyes widened slightly, not in shock, but in pure, stunned respect. Another noise followed, louder, punctuated by the bedframe in the adjacent room, apparently deciding to audition for a percussion section.
Hudson exhaled through his nose. "He's...really going."
Liam stared at the ceiling as if considering whether soundproofing was a human right. "Is it always like this?"
Hudson's mouth twitched. "No."
Another wail sliced through the wall, like a ghost being exorcised with enthusiasm.
Hudson corrected himself. "Yes."
Liam's lips parted, and a laugh escaped him, small at first, disbelieving. "The place is feeling...small," he said, choosing his words like he didn't want to offend the laws of physics.
Hudson turned his head toward Liam, dead serious. "Nah. Teo just takes up too much space."
Liam let out a quiet, helpless laugh that grew into something fuller, an actual laugh, the kind Hudson hadn't heard from him in days. It came out warm and unguarded.
Then.
"DON'T YOU...FUCKING...STOP..."
Hudson threw his arm over his eyes. "Jesus Christ."
Liam's laughter faltered into a cough. "Does...does he want us to hear?"
Hudson dropped his arm and looked at Liam. "He needs us to hear."
As if on cue, Mateo's voice rose again, theatrical and triumphant, followed by a line that sounded like it belonged on a stage and not in a one-bedroom apartment. Hudson groaned into his pillow. Liam covered his mouth with his hand, shoulders shaking.
There was a brief lull, as if Mateo had finally been granted mercy.
Hudson's breathing slowed. Liam's hand found Hudson's on the sheet, fingers lacing together.
In the pause, the world returned.
Liam's thumb stroked Hudson's knuckles once. His voice dropped, softer now. "I don't know how much longer I can..." he said, pausing. "Things are tight," Liam admitted. He said it like it tasted wrong, like he'd never said those words before. "The allowance is...it's enough to breathe, but not enough to fight."
Hudson turned on his side to face him fully. "How bad?"
Liam hesitated, eyes flickering away. "It's not...catastrophic yet," he said carefully, which meant it was. "But legal fees stack fast. Motions, filings, hearings, administrative oversight…" He let out a thin laugh.
Hudson's gaze stayed steady. "You're not panicking."
Liam's mouth curved, faint and tired. "I've had practice."
From the other room, a new wave of noises erupted, Mateo apparently ascending to a higher plane.
Hudson didn't even flinch this time. He only reached up and brushed his thumb along Liam's cheekbone, grounding him the way he'd learned to do without thinking. "I'm already looking," Hudson said. "For work."
Liam's eyes snapped back to him. "Hudson..."
"Don't," Hudson cut in gently, but firmly. "I'm not helpless," he said. "And I'm not... I'm not a passenger."
Liam looked at him for a long moment. His eyes held that familiar battle, pride, fear, and gratitude all tangled together.
Hudson smiled a little, trying to make it easier. "Plus," he added, "I'm hot. Someone will hire me."
Liam's lips twitched.
Hudson leaned in closer, their foreheads almost touching. "We'll pull through this," he said quietly. "We'll make it work."
Liam swallowed. His voice came out rougher than he meant. "I love you, Arizona."
Hudson's brows knit. He nudged Liam's nose with his own. "I love you, Pluto."
Another long, operatic moan broke through the wall, followed by what sounded like Mateo shouting something religious.
Hudson closed his eyes, laughing under his breath.
Liam stared at the ceiling again, helpless. "He's doing...a lot."
Hudson laughed louder. "He always does."
Liam's gaze returned to Hudson, softer now. "And you?" he asked, quietly. "Are you doing a lot, too?"
Hudson's smile faltered into something tender. "I'm doing you," he whispered, then immediately burst into a grin.
Liam's laugh came out full this time, surprised, delighted.
Hudson leaned in and kissed him.
It started playful, warm mouths, smiling into each other, Hudson's low moans caught between their lips. Then it deepened, the humor slipping into something hungry and real. Liam's hand slid into Hudson's hair, holding him close. Hudson's fingers curled into Liam's skin, pulling him nearer, breath hitching.
From the other room, Mateo howled again, as if offended by the concept of anyone else having a private moment.
Hudson pulled back just enough to whisper, grinning, "If he says my name through that wall, I'm moving out."
Liam's eyes crinkled. "I'll pay for the moving truck."
Hudson laughed, then kissed Liam again, harder, longer, until they were both breathless and smiling in the dark, pressed together while the world outside tried to take them down.
Piece by piece.
*
The next morning started with Hudson believing in effort.
Not in a naïve way, Hudson had never been naïve about the world, but in the stubborn, Arizona-bred way of a person who'd survived on nothing and still managed to stand up and show up.
He showered. He shaved. He put on thrifted slacks and a clean shirt. He combed his raven hair back and then let it fall how it wanted anyway.
Liam watched him from the couch with a mug of coffee in his hand, eyes heavier than he wanted to admit. Hudson leaned down and kissed him. Quick. Simple. A punctuation mark.
"I'll be back later," Hudson said. Liam's hand caught Hudson's wrist for a second. He released him immediately. Hudson squeezed his fingers, a gentle smile taking over his lips. "I'm coming back," he corrected, gentler.
Liam nodded, but his jaw stayed locked.
Hudson walked down West Hollywood.
He hit the places people always said were hiring. Places with chalkboard menus. Places that bragged about being "family." Places where the staff all looked like they belonged in light foundation ads. He walked in with a smile and a resume printed on cheap paper, and he did what he had always done: made himself easy to like.
At the first café, a woman with blunt bangs took his resume, skimmed it, and smiled brightly. "Oh my God, thank you for coming in," she chirped. Her tone was sunshine. Her eyes were already slipping away. "We're just...super stacked right now, but we'll definitely keep you on file."
Hudson nodded. "Totally. I can start tonight."
She laughed as if he'd made a joke. "Okay, love that. Love the energy."
Behind her, a man in an apron glanced up from a tablet, eyes flicking to Hudson and then down again. Quick. Uncomfortable. Hudson left with a "thank you so much" and a smile that stayed on his face until he hit the sidewalk.
Then it fell off like a costume.
The second place was a trendy bistro with a host stand. The manager came out in a crisp black shirt, hair perfectly styled, hands clasped like he was already rehearsing rejection.
Hudson introduced himself. Offered his resume. Smiled.
The manager's eyes dropped to the paper, then lifted to Hudson's face, and then, for no reason Hudson could justify, darted toward the manager's phone sitting face down on the counter.
It was a slight movement.
But Hudson noticed.
The manager smiled. "You've got great experience."
"Thanks," Hudson said. "I'm a fast learner too."
"Totally," the manager replied, rehearsed warmth, rehearsed ease. "We'll call you."
Hudson's smile held. "Great."
The manager's gaze flicked to the phone again.
Hudson left.
By the third place, he'd started to feel weird, something shifting around him that he couldn't see but could sense. A pressure change. A cold front.
At a bar on Santa Monica, the assistant manager took his resume and chatted with him for a minute, Hudson's turquoise eyes, his easy charm, his calm competence, doing what they usually did. The guy even laughed at one of Hudson's jokes.
Then the assistant manager's phone buzzed.
He glanced down.
His face changed.
Just slightly. Not enough for most people to register. Enough for Hudson to watch the smile stiffen and the conversation shorten, like a rope being cut.
"Yeah," the guy said, suddenly brisk. "Okay. We're...not hiring right now, actually. Sorry, man."
Hudson blinked. "You just...your sign says..."
"Old sign," the guy replied quickly. He didn't meet Hudson's eyes.
Hudson stepped back, the polite "Oh, okay. No worries," arriving on autopilot. He turned to leave and felt the weight of the guy's gaze on his back for half a second, something like guilt.
He walked outside into the sun and stood there, still, as if the brightness could explain the darkness.
He checked his phone.
No new messages.
He didn't want any. He wanted proof that he could still build something with his own hands. He wanted to come home to Liam with a job and a grin and say, 'See? We're fine'.
He tried again. Each time, the same pattern. Smiles that were too quick. Enthusiasm that evaporated. A phrase that kept returning like a chorus.
"We'll call you."
And then, nothing.
At one place, a hostess whispered to the manager as Hudson stood there waiting. Hudson couldn't hear the words, but he saw the way the manager's expression tightened. The manager walked over, didn't even take the resume.
"Not hiring," he said.
Hudson nodded and left.
At another, a woman took the paper, smiled, and said, "Oh, you're...Hudson."
The way she said his name made it feel like she'd heard it elsewhere. Like it carried a shadow.
Hudson's throat went dry. "Yeah. That's what it says."
She smiled again. Too polished. "We'll call you."
He didn't believe her.
He'd stopped believing two interviews ago.
He sat at a small table outside a coffee shop with his resumes folded in his bag like bandages that hadn't worked.
Across from him, a couple laughed over iced drinks. A dog barked. A man on a scooter nearly hit someone and apologized without stopping. Life kept happening, oblivious to his slow unraveling. Hudson pulled out his phone and stared at the blank screen. He didn't call Liam. He couldn't bear to bring that disappointment into their room, into Liam's already strained calm. Hudson's fingers tightened around the phone.
And then it hit him, not like a punch but like a cold realization sliding under his ribs.
This wasn't coincidence.
It was choreography.
It was an invisible hand on every doorknob he tried to turn. Now he understood the mechanism. It didn't need threats shouted in public. It didn't need obvious sabotage.
It only needed whispers.
A text sent to the right person.
A name dropped.
A suggestion.
Hudson looked down the street, at the glowing signs and glass storefronts, and the carefully curated coolness of West Hollywood, and for the first time, he saw it differently.
A town that ran on access.
A town that ran on fear of losing access.
A town where doors didn't lock.
They simply didn't open.
Hudson let out a slow breath that trembled on the way out. His eyes stung. He blinked hard, forcing whatever was trying to get out back inside. He wasn't going to cry in the middle of WeHo like a cliché.
So he stood, slung the bag over his shoulder, and started walking again. His feet carried him on muscle memory for a while, past storefronts, patios, clusters.
He stopped at a crosswalk and stared at the red hand blinking DON'T WALK, and for a second, it felt personal.
His bag with the resumes dug into his shoulder. The paper inside had begun to bend at the corners, soft from being handled, rejected, and returned to.
Then he saw the sign.
A narrow storefront tucked between a Pilates studio and a boutique that sold candles for the price of groceries. The windows were fogged slightly, and the lettering on the glass was old-school, hand-painted, a little chipped around the edges.
The place looked lived in. A small, stubborn place.
Hudson stood there for a moment, staring in as if he could tell from the way the light fell whether he'd be turned away again.
Inside, the dining area was modest, maybe a dozen tables, mismatched chairs, and a worn wooden bar. There was no performative cool.
He pushed the door open.
A bell chimed.
A woman behind the counter glanced up. "Hey," she said, bored but not unkind.
"Hi," Hudson said. "I'm...looking for work."
The woman's eyes moved over him in a quick assessment: young, handsome, polite, tired. She nodded toward a door marked STAFF ONLY. "You need to talk to Gabe," she said, already turning back to whatever she'd been doing.
Hudson's heart bumped hard once.
Gabe.
He knocked lightly on the staff door and stepped through.
The kitchen hit him like a hot wall. A cook shouted something in Spanish. Someone slammed a pan down. And there, near the pass, leaning one hip against the counter, stood a man who made Hudson stop walking.
Mid-forties, broad-shouldered, forearms strong and veined, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Dark hair threaded with a bit of silver at the temples, beard kept close. His face was handsome in a way that wasn't pretty, attractive like a man who'd lived, who'd been punched by life and learned how to punch back without losing his softness. His eyes were sharp, scanning orders, scanning people. Protective and tired at the same time.
He turned when he sensed Hudson.
Those eyes landed on him, brown, steady. "Need something?" the man asked.
His voice was not unfriendly.
Not welcoming either.
A gate with a lock.
Hudson cleared his throat. "I'm Hudson. I'm looking for a job."
The man's gaze flicked to Hudson's hands, then to his face. He didn't smile. He didn't offer his name.
"Experience?" he asked.
"Yeah," Hudson said quickly. "Front of house mostly. Serving. Some bar. Some kitchen prep when needed."
The man's brow lifted slightly. "Front of house," he repeated, as if testing the word for cracks.
Hudson felt his pride flare, quiet, stubborn. "I'm pretty good," he added, then softened it because he wasn't here to fight. "I learn fast. I show up."
The man watched him for a long beat.
"What places?" the man asked.
Hudson named a couple. The man listened. Then his eyes narrowed, not at Hudson, but past him, toward the kitchen door, like he was hearing something Hudson couldn't.
Finally, he sighed, the sound quiet but heavy. "We're not hiring, kid," he said.
Hudson's heart dropped, but he didn't let it show much. He nodded once, polite. "Okay," Hudson said. He managed a small smile because it was easier than letting the hurt leak. "Thanks anyway."
He turned to go before he could beg, before he could look desperate, before the day could swallow him again. He made it three steps.
"Hey." The word stopped him like a hand on his collar. Hudson turned back. "Come here," Gabe said.
Hudson walked back, cautious.
Gabe didn't lower his voice. "I got a call a couple of hours before you came in," Gabe said.
Hudson froze.
Gabe watched the reaction hit Hudson's face and didn't soften. He let the truth land like it needed to. "They told me not to hire you," Gabe continued. "They didn't say why."
Hudson's mouth went dry.
The kitchen noise blurred for a second.
He forced himself to speak. "And you...?"
Gabe's eyes sharpened. "I don't like taking orders," he said.
Hudson stared at him.
Gabe's gaze didn't waver. "If you're trouble," he went on, voice steady. "You're going to be trouble on my terms, not because some piece of shit with money and a phone thinks they get to dictate who earns a paycheck in my fucking building."
Hudson's throat tightened so abruptly it almost hurt. He blinked hard, the sting behind his eyes threatening to betray him.
Gabe continued, practical now. "So here's the deal. I'll give you a shot. But I'm not putting you on the floor yet."
Hudson's chest sank a fraction. Pride, again, sharp and automatic.
Gabe saw it. "Kitchen service," he said. "Back. Prep. Dish. Food running through the pass. No bullshit. You show up. You work. You keep your head down."
Hudson swallowed.
It wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't the job he'd imagined he'd bring home to Liam, triumphant. It was invisible work. The kind that left your hands raw, your back sore, and your name unknown.
But it was work.
Stability.
It was a door opened.
Hudson's pride rose one last time, wanting to say 'I can handle the floor', wishing to insist on dignity.
"Okay," he said.
Gabe studied him, as if testing whether Hudson would flinch, whether he'd complain, whether he'd try to negotiate.
Hudson kept his voice steady. "I'll do it. I just...I need work."
For the first time, something in Gabe's expression shifted. Not quite warmth. But the hardness eased at the edges.
"Good," Gabe said. Then he added, quieter. "Fill that out. You start tomorrow. Six a.m."
Hudson almost laughed at the brutality of it. Six a.m., like the universe wanted him punished for hope. He nodded anyway. "Yes."
As he took the clipboard, Gabe's gaze held his for a second longer than necessary, sharp, assessing. "You got people depending on you?" Gabe asked, abruptly.
Hudson hesitated, then answered honestly. "Yeah."
Gabe's eyes flicked over Hudson again, the fatigue in him deepening into something like understanding. He didn't ask more. "Then don't flake."
Hudson's mouth curved into the smallest smile. "I won't."
Gabe turned back to the kitchen like the moment was already over, like he hadn't just handed Hudson a lifeline.
But as Hudson started filling out the paperwork on the counter, he realized this was a man with his own history, his own scars, who recognized a trap when he saw one.
And who, for reasons Hudson didn't yet understand, had decided to put his hand in front of the door and allow Hudson to go through.
*
By the end of the first month, Liam had learned to recognize the tone.
It arrived in people's voices before it arrived in their words, an almost tender caution, a practiced gentleness that wasn't kindness at all. It was fear-worn manners. It was professionals trying to keep their hands clean while they pushed him out of the room.
The first call came on a Tuesday that had started like an ordinary day in a life that was no longer ordinary. Hudson was already up, pulling on his slacks, tying his shoes with the grim devotion of a man determined to be useful. Mateo was in the kitchen with a spoon and a bowl, narrating his own breakfast as if it were a television segment.
Liam sat on the couch, his phone in hand, staring at the screen as if he could will it to tell the truth.
When it rang, he answered immediately. "Hey," Liam said, voice smooth, casual, as if he hadn't been waiting.
Hudson heard the shift in Liam's tone instantly. It was the voice Liam used on sets. The voice that kept people from noticing he was bleeding.
He didn't put it on speaker. He stepped into the hallway, away from the kitchenette, away from Mateo's loud chewing. Hudson watched him disappear toward the bathroom, watched the way Liam's shoulders pulled tight as soon as the doorframe swallowed him.
Minutes passed.
Hudson tried not to listen, but the apartment was thin-walled in every way, and Liam's life was too loud to contain.
"I get it," Liam said, calm. "No. I understand."
A pause.
"No, I'm not asking for special treatment," Liam added, voice still polite. "I just need to know the plan."
Another pause.
Hudson heard a quiet inhale, controlled, measured.
"Optics," Liam repeated softly, like he was tasting the word. "Right."
Liam came back into the living room with his face arranged, casual, nothing to see here. But his eyes didn't fully focus on the room. They looked through it.
Hudson waited until Mateo's attention drifted to his phone, then spoke quietly. "Who was it?"
Liam's thumb slid across the phone screen, locking it, unlocking it again. A small, pointless motion.
"My agent," Liam said.
Hudson's heart tightened. "And?"
Liam gave a faint smile that didn't belong to joy. "They're...taking a beat."
Hudson stared at him. "A beat."
"It's just..." Liam searched for the proper phrasing, like he was translating. "They're pausing on sending me anything new for now. They don't want to...complicate negotiations while the legal stuff is active."
Hudson's voice came out smaller than he meant. "So... you're benched."
Liam's mouth twitched at the bluntness. "Temporarily," he said, too quick.
Hudson watched him, and it was in the way Liam wouldn't meet his eyes that Hudson understood.
The phone didn't ring again for a long time after that. It was as if one call had loosened something in the air, and suddenly everyone remembered they had other people they could talk to.
That night, Liam stood at the window behind the blackout curtains and watched the paparazzi lights ripple faintly through the fabric like distant fireflies. The ripples were diminishing.
Hudson came up behind him, wrapped his arms around Liam's middle, and rested his chin against Liam's shoulder.
Liam didn't lean back into him right away. "I'm fine," Liam murmured, as if Hudson had accused him of breaking.
Hudson didn't answer the words.
He answered the man.
He held him tighter.
The second call came two weeks later, and it didn't bother with softness.
It hit like a door slammed in a quiet house.
They were in Evelyn's office, her temporary war room, all legal pads and coffee that tasted like it had been reheated to death. Liam sat on the edge of a chair, posture straight, hands folded.
Evelyn's phone rang.
She looked at the caller ID and went very still. Raj, standing by the printer, paused with a stack of papers in his hands.
Evelyn answered. "Yes."
Silence stretched. She listened. Her face hardened, then smoothed, then hardened again.
"Mm-hm," she said. "I see." Evelyn glanced at Liam, then looked away as if she didn't want him to read her face. "Understood," she said into the phone. "Send it in writing." She ended the call and set her phone down like it weighed a hundred pounds.
For a beat, no one spoke.
Then Evelyn exhaled once, sharply. "The bank is calling the facility," she said.
"How fast?" Liam asked.
Evelyn's eyes stayed on him. "Not fast enough to kill you today," she said. "Fast enough to scare everyone tomorrow."
Raj stepped in, voice measured. "It's a covenant trigger," he explained. "They're saying the governance uncertainty constitutes risk. They want additional assurances, or they'll tighten access."
"Okay," Liam said, voice too calm. "What's the move?"
Evelyn watched him with something like admiration, something like grief.
"We respond immediately," she said. "We file notices. We present the court's interim order to them. We show them the clean structure being established. We make them understand this is a temporary governance dispute, not a collapse."
She saw the faint tremor in Liam's breathing. It was the first crack she'd seen. Not because Liam was weak. Because Liam was tired. Because Liam had lived his whole life with money like a floor beneath him, and now the floor was being yanked out, not by fate, but by a person.
Liam leaned forward, voice quiet. "Can they take the house?"
Evelyn didn't answer immediately, which was an answer. "If they accelerate," she said finally, "and if there's no coverage...yes. Eventually. This is why we have to move now."
Liam nodded once. The movement was small, restrained, as if he didn't want his body to betray him with panic.
The third call came a month after that, and it was the one that finally taught Liam something law couldn't fix quickly.
It wasn't from a bank.
It wasn't from a lawyer.
It was from a producer.
A man Liam had once hugged at an afterparty, sweat and champagne between them, both of them pretending they were friends when they were really just momentum.
The producer called late, past dinner, past the hour where normal people made tea and turned down the lights.
Liam's phone lit up with the producer's name. Liam stared at it for a long moment. Hudson watched his thumb hover, saw the hesitation, the part of Liam that already knew.
Liam answered.
He didn't move away this time. He stayed right there. "Hey," Liam said.
Hudson listened to Liam's side only, but it was enough. It always was.
Liam's face remained composed while his eyes sharpened, then dulled, then sharpened again. Like the words were scraping him from the inside.
"Yeah," Liam said. "I get it." A pause. "No," Liam said, tone clipped, "I'm not asking you to put your neck out. I'm asking what's changed."
Longer pause.
Hudson watched the color drain from Liam's face, slowly.
"Insurance," Liam repeated, voice flattening. "Completion bond."
Hudson's stomach dropped. He didn't fully understand the mechanics, but he understood the shape: permission being revoked.
Liam nodded as if the person on the other side could see him. "Right," he said. "Risk profile." Liam's jaw clenched so hard Hudson thought his teeth might crack. "Okay," Liam said finally. "Thank you for telling me."
His voice stayed polite even as something in him seemed to fracture. He ended the call and stood there holding the phone for a moment as if it had become foreign in his hand. Hudson didn't move at first. He waited.
Then Liam let out a breath that sounded like air escaping a punctured tire. "They said it's out of their hands," Liam murmured.
Hudson's voice came out rough. "Is it?"
Liam laughed once, bitterly. "Nothing is ever out of anyone's hands. It's just easier to say that than to admit they chose to fuck me over."
Hudson stepped forward slowly, carefully. "What does it mean?"
Liam looked at him, and Hudson saw it then, fear, not of losing fame, but of losing the one thing that had always been his anchor.
The work.
"It means," Liam said, "they won't insure me. Which means no one will finance. Which means no studio will risk the schedule. Which means..." His voice thinned. "I'm not a person to them anymore."
Hudson's throat tightened. "What are you?"
Liam stared past Hudson at the wall. "Collateral," he whispered.
Hudson stepped close enough that Liam could feel him, then placed his hands on Liam's cheeks, gently, forcing Liam's eyes back to his.
Hudson's voice was quiet but sure. "You're not collateral," he said.
Liam's eyes glistened, and he blinked hard, fighting the flood.
Hudson continued, steady. "You're not a headline. You're not a 'risk profile.' You're not something that bitch can file away."
Liam's breathing trembled.
Hudson's thumbs brushed the edges of Liam's jaw. "You're Liam 'fucking' Hart," he said. "And you're here. And you're still breathing."
Liam's lips parted like he wanted to speak, but no words came.
Hudson leaned in and kissed him, soft at first, then harder, like he was trying to stitch something back together with his mouth.
Liam kissed him back.
*
Spring arrived in Los Angeles the way it always did, quietly, almost smugly, and even though Liam's life had been peeled down to the bone, the city still shimmered as if it were selling hope by the ounce.
They met at a café.
It was tucked off a side street in Silver Lake, small and bright, with mismatched mugs and chipped plates and a chalkboard menu written in hand.
Liam arrived five minutes early. He chose a corner table where he could see the door and the windows without drawing attention. He'd learned to make vigilance look like casualness. He ordered black coffee, then stared at it, hands loosely wrapped around the paper cup.
The door chimed.
A man walked in, wind-tousled hair and a canvas tote slung over his shoulder. Mid-thirties, maybe. Lean, expressive face. Eyes that didn't dart around searching for importance. He paused, scanning the room.
His gaze found Liam.
Instead of flinching or lighting up, the man's expression softened into something almost pleased.
"Mr. Hart?" he asked.
Liam's jaw tightened automatically at the title. "Liam," he corrected, gentle but firm, standing to shake his hand.
The man's grip was solid. Warm. "Eli Sorrento," he said. "Thanks for meeting me."
Liam measured him in half a second. Eli's hands were ink-stained at the knuckles like he wrote by hand. He had a thin scar on one thumb. He smelled faintly of smoke and peppermint.
"You're early," Eli noted, sliding into the seat across from him.
"I'm always early," Liam said.
Eli smiled. "Yeah. That tracks."
Liam's eyebrows lifted. "Does it?"
Eli shrugged, taking off his jacket and draping it over the chair. "You've got that...survival punctuality."
Liam blinked. It was a strangely precise observation for a first meeting. He said nothing, but something in him loosened, just a fraction.
Eli ordered a cortado and a pastry without looking at the menu. Like he'd been here enough to have a rhythm with the place.
When the barista walked away, Eli leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. "Okay," Eli said, as if they were about to start rehearsal instead of conversation. "I'm just going to be honest, because I don't really know how to do anything else."
Liam's mouth twitched. "That makes one of us."
Eli's eyes flicked over Liam's face, studying the tightness, the restraint. "I don't think that's true," he said. "I think you're honest all the time. You were just...remarkably well trained to hide it."
"Why did you ask to meet?" Liam asked, steering.
Eli didn't resist the deflection. He nodded and reached into his tote bag. He pulled out a thin script with no glossy cover and no studio watermark. Just paper and staples.
Humble.
Real.
He slid it across the table. "This," Eli said.
Liam didn't pick it up right away. He looked at it like it might bite.
Eli continued, lit from within. "It's small. Ugly in the right ways. No studio machinery. No brand partnerships, no 'strategic narrative.' Just...a story about a man who's trying to live as himself when the world keeps insisting he's an object."
Liam's eyes narrowed. "That's...specific."
Eli smiled faintly. "I didn't initially write it for you," he admitted. "I wrote it because I had to. But then your...situation happened, and I thought..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I thought you might understand the temperature of it."
Liam finally reached out and touched the script, fingers brushing the cover.
"What's the title?" Liam asked.
Eli's gaze held steady. "What Remains."
Liam glanced down. The title sat there plain and stark, no cleverness, no glitter.
Liam let out a quiet breath. "That's cheerful."
Eli laughed, a short burst. "Yeah, it's a fucking party."
The barista brought Eli's drink. Eli thanked him, then turned back to Liam, serious again. "I should say this up front," Eli continued. "It doesn't pay much."
Liam's mouth curved. "Define 'much.'"
Eli winced. "I mean...indie much."
Liam nodded slowly. He'd expected that.
"And," Eli added, as if ripping off the second bandage, "it won't protect you."
Liam's gaze sharpened. "Meaning?"
Eli's voice stayed calm. "Meaning you won't be insulated by the studio machine. No PR defense. No crisis team. No insurance apparatus eager to smooth your edges so they can sell you. It'll be you. And whatever you've become to the industry right now."
Liam's jaw clenched again. He looked down at his coffee, then up. "You know I'm...radioactive," Liam said.
Eli shrugged lightly. "I know you're a person."
Liam watched Eli for a long beat, searching for the catch. The hidden agenda. The hunger. He found none.
"What do you want from me?" Liam asked finally.
Eli leaned back, surprised by the question. "I want you to act," he said. "I want you to bleed on screen in a way that isn't...performative. 'Cause I know for a fact that under that fucking circus you carry around, there's a great actor."
Liam's eyes flickered.
Eli continued, softer now. "I just...want you to remember why you ever loved this job in the first place."
That one landed.
Because Liam had loved it. Before the machine. Before the optics. Before survival became the job.
He stared at the script again, then looked up. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, more quietly.
Eli didn't pretend not to understand the real question. "Because I've watched too many talented people get eaten," Eli said. "And because..." He hesitated, then spoke with a frankness that felt almost old-fashioned. "Because your face has been on billboards for half my adult life, and the only time you've ever looked real to me was when you stopped trying to be liked."
"That's a very poetic way of saying you enjoyed my public breakdown," Liam said dryly.
Eli laughed.
Liam picked up the script and flipped it open. A few lines in, his face shifted. It was subtle, but Eli noticed. Hudson would have noticed too. Liam read silently, eyes scanning. The writing wasn't flashy. It was sharp and human. It trusted the actor to do the work. After a minute, Liam looked up.
Eli waited.
Liam's voice came out low. "This is...good."
Eli's expression softened with relief, but he didn't gloat. "Yeah," he said. "It is."
Liam closed the script slowly, as if it were something fragile. "What's the schedule?" he asked.
Eli blinked. "You're..."
Liam cut him off, calm. "What's the schedule?"
Eli's mouth opened, then closed. A grin tugged at him, almost boyish. "Eight weeks," he said. "We shoot mostly in New Mexico. A few days in L.A. Minimal crew. Tight budget. Long days."
Liam nodded, already calculating. Already adjusting. But there was something different in the way he did it now, less like a product, more like a craftsman.
"And the role?" Liam asked.
Eli's eyes sharpened with excitement. "His name is Cal," he said. "He's a nobody. Works in a rehab facility. He's sober, barely. Trying to be good. And he keeps failing in small ways until one day he doesn't. He chooses himself."
Liam's jaw moved as he swallowed.
Eli observed him. "I'm not asking you to be likable," Eli added. "I'm asking you to be true."
Liam held his gaze.
For a long moment, the café noise receded. The whispers of Marina. The headlines. The bank language. The court orders. The wolves. All of it fell away until there was only a table, a script, and the quiet, frightening possibility of doing something for love of the work again.
Liam exhaled. "It won't protect me," Liam said, not a question.
Eli shook his head. "No."
"It won't pay much," Liam added.
"No."
Liam nodded once, as if confirming something with himself. Then he said it, simple, like it was the most radical thing he'd done in months.
"I'll do it."
Eli's grin broke open. He tried to play it cool and failed. "Yeah?" he asked.
Liam's mouth curved faintly. "Yeah."
Eli let out a breath like he'd been holding it since he walked in. "Okay," he said, voice bright now, alive. "Okay. Great. We'll..."
Liam lifted a hand, stopping him gently. "One thing," he said.
Eli stilled. "Yeah."
Liam's gaze sharpened, honesty cutting through his usual guardrails. "I need it to be about the work," he said. "If it turns into a circus, I walk."
Eli's eyes held steady. "It won't," he promised. "Not if I can help it."
Liam studied him. "Can you?"
Eli's smile turned hard at the edges. "I'm stubborn."
A quiet laugh escaped Liam. "That makes two of us."
Eli raised his cup. "To craft over optics," he said.
Liam hesitated, then lifted his coffee in return. The gesture felt small, almost domestic, like an agreement made between two people instead of corporations.
They clinked cups softly.
*
(Two months later)
Liam sat cross-legged on the couch with Eli's script open on his lap. The pages were already worn at the corners, covered in pencil marks, notes in the margins, arrows, underlines, the quiet violence of someone trying to find truth inside words. A mug of tea sat on the coffee table, untouched, gone lukewarm.
He looked up when Hudson entered.
There was no performance in Liam's face now. Just that soft, constant attention, like Hudson was the one thing Liam's mind could land on without fear.
"Hey," Liam said.
Hudson's mouth curved, tired but real. "Hey."
He kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag near the door, and stood there for a second like his body didn't know how to switch off. Like he was waiting for someone to call an order.
Liam's gaze moved over him, hands, shirt, the faint slump in his posture, and something like tenderness tightened around Liam's eyes. "Long day?" Liam asked, though the question was mostly ritual. He already knew.
Hudson let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped behind his ribs for hours. "Gabriel made me scrub a pot that I'm pretty sure is older than the concept of mercy."
Liam's lips twitched. "Isn't that like his whole love language?"
Hudson gave a tired laugh and walked toward the kitchen sink, rewashing his hands even though he'd done it a hundred times. The water ran warm. Soap foamed. Still, the smell stayed, the ghost of garlic, the sting of detergent.
Behind him, Liam flipped a page. Pencil scratched lightly.
Hudson dried his hands and turned, leaning his hip against the counter, watching Liam from across the small living room. Liam looked concentrated. Alive. Not happy, exactly. But engaged. The work had given him something to hold again.
"You're doing your little...script thing," Hudson said.
Liam glanced up. "My little script thing?"
Hudson nodded solemnly. "Your little genius ritual."
Liam's eyes softened. "I'm not a genius."
Hudson shrugged. "Okay. Your little emotionally-terrifying talent ritual."
That pulled a quiet laugh from Liam, small and surprised. He tapped the pencil against the page once, then set it down.
Hudson pushed off the counter and wandered closer, stopping near the arm of the couch. He was too tired to be graceful. He stood there with his hands at his sides, looking at Liam like he was a question and an answer at the same time.
Liam's gaze held his.
A long beat stretched between them, full of things neither had said lately because there had been too much else to survive.
Finally, Liam spoke, voice low, careful. "Can I ask you something?"
Hudson blinked once. "That depends," he said, reflexive humor trying to protect him. "Are you about to ask me to commit tax fraud?"
Liam's mouth curved, but the smile didn't fully arrive. "Not tonight."
Hudson's stomach fluttered anyway. "Okay," he said, quieter. "Ask."
Liam looked down at the script on his lap. He thumbed the edge of a page. Then he looked back up, meeting Hudson's eyes without armor. "I was thinking…" Liam began, and the pause that followed wasn't theatrical. It was human. It was him trying to step forward without knowing if the ground would hold.
Hudson waited.
Liam exhaled. "I want us to get our own place," Liam said. Simple. Almost plain. Like he was afraid that if he dressed it up, it would become something he didn't deserve. "Just...you and me."
Hudson didn't move.
For a second, it didn't even land. It hovered in the air between them like a fragile thing, not quite real.
Liam swallowed. "I know it's messy right now," he added. "And I know money is...not what it used to be. But we could find something small. Something quiet. Somewhere that feels like ours."
Hudson's throat tightened.
Liam's eyes didn't leave his. "I want to come home and know it's you. Every time," he said softly.
Hudson's chest ached at the honesty of it. There was no grand speech, no dramatic vow. Just a man who had spent his whole life being owned by schedules and contracts, finally asking for something ordinary.
Hudson's mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
His heart was doing that old thing, pulling in two directions at once. Desire and fear. Want and instinct. A part of him wanted to say yes immediately, to leap into it like he always leapt into everything with Liam. A part of him, the part shaped by Arizona, whispered that permanence was a trap.
His voice came out raw. "Liam..."
Liam's gaze sharpened with worry. "If it's too soon..."
"It's not that," Hudson cut in quickly, almost desperate. He swallowed, fingers curling into the fabric of his own shirt. "It's just..." Hudson's voice dropped. "Do you mean it?" he asked. "Like...you really want this?"
Liam nodded once, slowly. "Yeah," he said. "I do."
Hudson stared at him.
He swallowed hard, then let a small, fragile smile pull at his mouth. "Okay," Hudson whispered.
Liam's eyes widened slightly, almost disbelieving. "Okay?"
Hudson nodded again, the smile growing stronger now, brighter. "Okay," he repeated, and before he could overthink it, before fear could grab him by the ankle, he moved.
Hudson climbed over the side of the couch and practically fell into Liam, arms wrapping around him, face burying into Liam's neck. Liam caught him instinctively, hands sliding up Hudson's back, holding him.
Hudson pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. "I love you," Hudson said.
Liam's face shifted, everything softening at once. His eyes closed like a man overwhelmed by sunlight. Like he couldn't bear the beauty of it fully open. When he opened them again, they were shining. With adoration so naked it made Hudson's chest ache.
"I love you too," Liam whispered.
The words weren't a cure. They didn't repair the past or guarantee the future.
But in that small room, they became something else.
A refuge.
A quiet place to land.
*
(Five Years Later)
"Look up," the makeup artist murmured, and Liam obeyed, eyes lifting toward a point above the lens where nothing lived except a ceiling and the memory of a hundred other ceilings.
He held still, jaw set, hands folded loosely in his lap. The camera already liked him. The audience already loved him. He still looked faintly uncomfortable with both facts.
The interviewer's voice came in from the side, friendly but careful, as if they could feel the thinness of Liam's skin today. "So," they began, "last time we touched on why you wanted to tell your story in your own terms." A pause. "What we haven't really talked about is...the gap year."
Liam's mouth twitched slightly. The makeup artist caught the movement, frowned, and gently held his chin. "The gap year?" Liam repeated.
The interviewer nodded, glancing down at their notes. "The year you stepped away. You disappeared from sets. You weren't on red carpets. There were no new projects. No...public presence, really, except the documentary."
The makeup artist finished and stepped away, hands lifting as if releasing him back to gravity.
Liam blinked once, then slowly exhaled. "You make it sound like a wellness retreat," Liam said lightly.
The interviewer smiled, but didn't laugh. "That's not how it looked."
Liam's eyes flicked toward the camera for a fraction of a second, then back to the interviewer. His posture remained composed, but something in his shoulders tightened, as if the subject had grabbed him by the collar.
"How did it look?" Liam asked.
The interviewer didn't say the worst words. They didn't need to. The crew in the room already knew them. The audience would, too, eventually. "It looked… quiet," the interviewer said carefully. "And then it looked...costly."
Liam's nostrils flared with a small breath. "Yeah," he said. "That's accurate."
Behind the interviewer, someone adjusted a reflector. The light warmed Liam's face, softening the angles, but it couldn't soften the truth living behind his eyes.
The interviewer leaned forward slightly. "There were reports," they said. "Whispers. Industry stuff. People saying you were 'difficult.' That you were 'unstable.' That you'd..." Liam's jaw flexed once. "...burned bridges," the interviewer finished.
Liam's smile flashed, brief and sharp. "Hollywood's favorite bedtime story," he murmured. "A man steps out of line, and suddenly he's a cautionary tale."
The interviewer held his gaze. "Were you blacklisted?"
The question landed without theatrics, but it landed.
Liam didn't answer right away. He looked down at his hands as if checking they were still there, still his. When he looked up again, the charm was gone. The public mask had slipped just enough to show the man underneath, worn, rebuilding, intact by sheer discipline.
"Yes," Liam said simply.
A hush moved through the room, not shock, not pity, just a quiet acknowledgement.
The interviewer nodded slowly. "And in that year...you made the documentary."
Liam's throat worked. "I made it," he echoed, like he was still surprised that he had.
"You funded it yourself," the interviewer added, "after you lost access. You assembled a small team. You filmed in places people didn't expect. You..." they smiled faintly, a hint of admiration, "...did the opposite of disappearing."
Liam's mouth softened slightly, but his eyes stayed guarded. "I didn't have many options," he said.
"You had a very big option," the interviewer countered gently. "You could've gone back. You could've done what they wanted."
Liam's gaze tightened. Then, quietly. "I didn't want to live like that anymore."
The interviewer let the silence stretch, then shifted, almost casually. A segue that wasn't really a segue. "And during that same period," they said, "you founded an agency."
Liam's eyes lifted.
The interviewer continued, "It's not a traditional agency. You've been clear about that. It's...an advocacy structure as much as it is representation."
Liam nodded once. "Yeah."
"Full transparency," the interviewer said. "Independent oversight. Third-party trust administration. Guardianship protections. Financial literacy for parents. Mental health support for kids. Contracts translated into plain language."
Liam's mouth twitched, almost amused at how crisp it sounded when someone else listed it.
"You built the thing you wish you'd had," the interviewer said.
Liam's eyes darkened with something complicated: anger, tenderness, all of it braided together. "I built it because I didn't want a twelve-year-old to sit alone on a studio lot ever again," he said.
The interviewer's voice softened. "And you've become...a beacon."
Liam let out a small, humorless laugh. "Don't call me that."
"It's true," the interviewer said. "You've become...a proof-of-life. That someone can survive the machine and come out the other side with their humanity intact."
Liam's expression flickered, something almost vulnerable passing through. He looked away, just briefly, as if the compliment was too intimate.
"I didn't come out intact," he said quietly.
The interviewer didn't argue. They watched him, attentive.
Then, after a beat, they asked the question that changed the temperature of the room. "What did you lose?"
Liam's eyes shivered. He stared at the interviewer as if trying to decide whether to lie. The makeup artist, still nearby, went still with her brush in hand, sensing the shift. No one moved. Even the lights felt quieter.
The interviewer's voice became gentler, lower. "I'm sorry. We can stop," they offered. "We can take a break."
Liam shook his head once. A small shake. A stubborn one.
"No," he whispered.
He swallowed. His throat worked again as if the words were physically challenging to push through. The interviewer waited. Liam's gaze drifted toward the camera, then past it, to somewhere far away. Somewhere with an apartment that smelled like a boy with turquoise eyes who didn't know he was about to become the center of a war.
Liam's voice finally came, rougher than before.
"I lost...everything," he said.
(To be continued...)
Hudson and Liam’s story doesn’t end here. If you’re reading along, I’d love to hear from you.
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