Finding Liam

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.

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“Smoke Signals”

Hudson's mouth opened before his brain could negotiate with it.

"I'm not letting you fuck me."

The sentence fell onto the table like a dropped fork, loud in the silence, absurdly blunt, impossible to pretend it hadn't happened.

For a heartbeat, Liam stared at him.

Then he laughed.

It wasn't the polished, public laugh Hudson imagined actors perfected. Rather something warm and surprised and a little helpless.

Hudson felt his ears burn. "What?"

"Nothing," Liam managed, still laughing. "It's just..." He breathed out. "That's...not where I thought this was going."

Hudson crossed his arms, defensive. "The door is locked."

Liam lifted both hands in surrender, still grinning. "Okay. Yes. The optics are terrible."

Hudson's eyes narrowed. "So you can understand why I said it."

"I can," Liam said, and then, gentler, "Relax, Hudson." Liam's smile softened. He leaned back into the booth. "I don't want to fuck you," he said.

Hudson blinked, thrown. "You don't?"

Liam's eyebrows lifted as if Hudson had accused him of a crime. "No."

Hudson's chest did a strange, contradictory thing, half relief, half insult. "Oh," Hudson said, too quickly. "Okay. Good. Great. That's...yeah. Great."

Liam watched him for a second, amusement tugging at his mouth again. "You sound offended."

"I'm not offended," Hudson said, immediately, which sounded exactly like a lie.

Liam's grin widened. "Okay."

Hudson leaned forward, lowering his voice as if the empty restaurant had ears. "I'm not. I'm just, you know...clarifying."

"Clarifying that you're not going to sleep with me," Liam said, still amused.

"Yes," Hudson insisted. "Because you said 'it depends on you' and that's..." He gestured vaguely. "That's what guys say when they're trying to..."

"To what?" Liam asked, eyes bright.

Hudson stopped himself before the sentence could become even more humiliating. He swallowed. "Never mind."

Liam's laughter faded into a softer smile. He didn't press. He rested his forearms on the table again, fingers loosely interlaced, and looked at Hudson. "I meant it depends on you," Liam said quietly, "whether I get what I want tonight."

Hudson's brow furrowed despite himself. "Which is?"

Liam paused. The guard rails didn't slam down. But they appeared, subtle as a change in lighting. His gaze flicked away, briefly, to the empty room, the locked door, the dark windows.

Then he looked back at Hudson. "I just wanted," Liam said, choosing the words like they mattered, "to sit with someone who doesn't want anything from me."

Hudson tried to joke his way out of the sudden weight in the air. "I want to keep my job."

Liam's eyes softened. "That's fair."

Silence hovered. Hudson found himself watching Liam's hands now, the way they rested, the slight tension in the fingers as if even stillness required effort.

Hudson's voice came out quieter. "So you locked everyone out because you wanted...company."

Liam didn't nod, exactly. He just let the truth sit there. "It sounds pathetic when you say it like that," he murmured.

Hudson shook his head. "I didn't say pathetic."

Liam's gaze held his. "You thought it."

Hudson hesitated. He didn't want to lie. He also didn't want to be cruel.

"I thought," Hudson admitted slowly, "that it sounded..."

Liam's jaw tightened so quickly that Hudson almost missed it. Not anger. Not even hurt. More like reflex. A muscle memory of not letting the soft parts show.

He leaned back, draping his arm along the booth again, posture casual on purpose. Actor posture. "I'm not lonely," Liam said lightly. "I'm just...selective when it comes to socializing."

Hudson exhaled a laugh through his nose. "That's the fanciest way I've ever heard someone say they don't have friends."

Liam's eyes flashed, amused and warning at once. "I have friends."

"Name five," Hudson said, before he could stop himself.

Liam stared at him.

Hudson waited, smug.

Liam's mouth opened, then closed again.

Hudson's grin widened. "Oh, no."

Liam pointed at him, outraged. "I can name five."

"Go ahead."

Liam squinted at the ceiling, like the names were written somewhere up there and he just needed the right angle. "Okay. Uh. There's..."

Hudson leaned in, delighted. "There's uh. Great guy."

Liam shot him a look. "Don't."

Hudson couldn't help it. "You locked down a whole restaurant and you can't name five friends. That's not selective socializing. That's..."

Liam cut in, suddenly triumphant. "Theo."

Hudson blinked. "Theo?"

Liam nodded fast, seizing the first stepping stone. "Theo. Margot. Jamie."

Hudson narrowed his eyes. "Are these people or characters you've played?"

Liam's smile turned wicked. "Both."

Hudson groaned and sank back in the booth. "Unbelievable."

Liam leaned forward, warmth returning to his gaze, teasing now but gentler than before. "Okay, fine. You got me. My life is very glamorous and also incredibly stupid."

Hudson's grin tugged at his mouth again. "That I believe."

Liam's eyes stayed on him a beat too long, the teasing easing into something quieter. A simple fact hovering behind his smile: that he had wanted a person near him without a camera between them, without an agenda in their hand. Hudson saw it without Liam having to say it. The profound loneliness of being known by millions and understood by no one.

Hudson's chest tightened. He cleared his throat, reaching instinctively for humor like a life raft. "So," Hudson said, tapping the fry basket. "You didn't want sex. You wanted...fries and a hostage."

Liam laughed again, grateful for the shift. "Not a hostage. A companion."

Hudson's eyes flicked to the locked door. "Semantics."

Liam's grin widened. "Okay, yes. I kidnapped you. But in my defense, you were already sitting down."

Hudson snorted. "That's how you get sued."

"Thankfully, I'm rich," Liam said, then winced as if he hated himself for the line. "Sorry. That was gross."

Hudson stared at him, then burst out laughing. "That was the most honest thing you've said all night." He shook his head, still smiling.

Liam's eyes drifted to the fries, then back to Hudson. "So," he said, voice lighter, "did you stay because you're kind… or because you're scared of your manager?"

Hudson pretended to think. "It's a healthy mix."

Liam nodded, solemn. "A balanced diet."

Hudson gestured at the basket. "Speaking of. If you're going to emotionally kidnap me, you at least have to feed me."

Liam slid the fries closer, expression warm with something that looked dangerously like relief. "Deal."

Hudson reached in, took one, and their fingers brushed. Barely. It wasn't anything dramatic. It wasn't even intentional. But both of them went still for half a second.

Then Hudson, because he refused to be the only one flustered, pointed the fry at him like an accusation.

"Also," Hudson said, "for the record?" Liam's eyebrows lifted. Hudson's grin turned shameless. "You absolutely looked like you wanted to fuck me."

Liam smiled, head tipping back. He paused, lips cracking open like he might say something. But he didn't.

Hudson tried to sit still. He really did. He told his knee to stop bouncing, told his fingers to stop tapping the edge of the basket. But Liam sat there with that infuriating calm, watching Hudson like he had nowhere else to be in the world and nowhere else he wanted to put his attention.

It made Hudson restless. And when Hudson got restless, he got mouthy. "So," Hudson said, too casually, biting into another fry. "What about all your girlfriends?"

Liam paused mid-reach. His gaze lifted, slow, almost lazy, except the slight tightening at the corner of his eyes said he'd heard the edge underneath the question. The little annoyance Hudson was trying not to show.

"My girlfriends?" Liam repeated.

Hudson shrugged with exaggerated indifference. "Yeah. The ones the internet seems to assign you like seasonal decorations."

Liam's mouth twitched. "Ah."

He exhaled, as if settling into a familiar irritation. "I have fun," he said. "I go out. I fuck them. I date them. Sometimes."

Hudson's eyes narrowed. "Sometimes."

Liam glanced at the fries, then back at Hudson. "But none of it's serious."

Hudson didn't mean for his relief to show, but it did. He covered it by scoffing. "Why?" Hudson asked, like he didn't care.

Liam watched him a beat longer than necessary, as if he'd caught something Hudson hadn't meant to reveal. Then he answered with a shrug. "It's complicated," he said. "Either they want something...or it's part of a stunt."

Hudson blinked. "A stunt."

"A PR thing," Liam clarified. "A narrative. A 'power couple.' Sometimes it's my team. Sometimes it's theirs. Sometimes it's both. Everybody smiles, and everybody benefits. Nobody loses anything."

Hudson sat back, brow furrowing with genuine disgust. "That's depressing."

Liam's gaze held his. "It is."

Hudson shook his head slowly, as if trying to imagine consenting to that kind of life. "Dating someone for press?" he said. "That's like...ordering intimacy off a menu."

Liam's smile was small, rueful. "You're good with metaphors."

"I'm good with being horrified," Hudson replied.

Liam's eyes warmed, but there was something sad behind them, too, like Hudson's horror was oddly comforting because it proved Hudson wasn't numb yet.

Hudson tapped the fry basket, restless. "So what, you just...go along with it?"

Liam hesitated. The guard rails shifted, subtle but there. He didn't deny it. He just chose his words carefully. "Sometimes," Liam admitted. "Saying no is its own story. And I'm tired of stories."

Hudson's mouth tightened. He stared at Liam for a moment, then looked away, suddenly aware of how much he cared about the answer, and how ridiculous that was. He barely knew this man. He'd met him forty minutes ago by almost spilling a drink. And yet Hudson was sitting in a locked restaurant with him, arguing about the architecture of someone else's loneliness.

"God," Hudson muttered, running his thumb along the edge of the basket. "That's...bleak."

Liam gave a faint, amused huff. "Welcome to Hollywood."

Hudson glanced around the empty dining room, unable to hold down the sour little laugh that escaped him. "It's wild," he said.

Liam's eyes flickered, curious. "Why did you come here, then? You said you needed to leave. But why L.A.?"

Hudson shifted, annoyed at the spotlight suddenly swinging back onto him. He hated being questioned when his own feelings were already too loud.

"I don't know," Hudson said, honest in the most unromantic way. "I suppose I just picked the biggest place I could find on the map. Big enough to disappear in."

Liam's brows lifted. "That's...ironic."

Hudson snorted. "Yeah. Turns out I'm surrounded by people trying to be seen. We're like...the world's worst match."

Liam smiled slowly. "Are we?"

"I meant..." Hudson corrected before he realized the smirk plastered on Liam's lips.

The truth was sitting right there between them, salted and warm: Hudson felt oddly safe with him. Not safe like nothing can happen, but safe like I can say something stupid and you won't punish me for it.

Hudson didn't like that.

At all.

He grabbed onto irritation again, because irritation at least felt like control. "So none of those women were serious," Hudson said, circling back. "But you let people think they are."

Liam's gaze sharpened gently. "You seem mad about it."

Hudson's answer came too fast. "No."

Liam's mouth twitched. "That was a very defensive no."

Hudson's cheeks warmed. He pushed a fry around with his finger like it had personally offended him. "I just think it's...sad," he said. "To have your life arranged like that. Like you're a product."

Liam watched him, and something softened in his expression, something that looked like gratitude wearing a disguise. "You're annoyed on my behalf," Liam said, not unkindly.  

Hudson stared at him. His pulse ticked louder. "I'm not," Hudson insisted, though his voice didn't have much conviction.

Liam's eyes dipped briefly to Hudson's mouth again, then returned to his gaze. "Then why bring up my girlfriends?"

Hudson hated that Liam was right. Hated that Liam could see him so easily. He shrugged, a little sharply. "You're the one who said you rarely get what you really want. So I was...testing it."

Liam's brow lifted. "Testing it."

"Yeah," Hudson said, forcing a smirk. "To see if you were full of it. If you're actually just a spoiled celebrity who pouts when the world doesn't hand him a gold-plated life."

Liam's smile widened, but his eyes stayed steady. "And what did you conclude?"

Hudson opened his mouth, ready to deliver a clever insult. But what came out was quieter.

"That you look tired," Hudson said.

Liam didn't move. The truth had landed, and neither of them wanted to step on it.

Hudson, suddenly uncomfortable with his own honesty, inhaled and tried to pull them back toward humor. "And also," he added, lifting a fry like a tiny sword, "you're absolutely a little spoiled."

Liam's laughter came out softer this time. "Fair."

Hudson relaxed a fraction, relieved.

Then Liam held Hudson's gaze. "Most people walk into a conversation with me already holding a script. They either want to impress me, or they want to use me, or they want to punish me for being what they think I am."

Hudson chewed slowly, then swallowed. His voice came out smaller. "And what do you think I want?"

Liam paused, then said, almost amused by it, "I think you want me to be a person."

Hudson looked down at the fries and shook his head a little, embarrassed. "That's the lowest bar in the world."

"And yet," Liam said, gently, "it's a bar most people miss."

Hudson felt a strange warmth spread through his chest, at once uncomfortable and sweet. He tried to disguise it by shifting in his seat. "This is weird," Hudson muttered.

Liam's mouth curved. "What is?"

Hudson gestured vaguely between them. "This. We just met." Liam's gaze stayed on him, intent. Hudson shook his head as if that should solve it. "I feel like, I don't know...like I've known you longer than forty minutes."

Liam's expression softened. "Maybe I was right. You're an anomaly," he teased.

Hudson narrowed his eyes.

Liam grinned.

Hudson waited.

Liam's gaze drifted over him, slower now, thoughtful. "Or maybe you're...a problem."

Hudson's pulse jumped, annoyed at his own reaction. "How am I a problem?"

Liam's smile sharpened, playful again, but behind it, Hudson caught that same quiet sincerity that kept surfacing like a hand reaching up from deep water. "Because you're...easy," Liam said. "I'm not used to easy."

Hudson swallowed, his fingers stilling on the edge of the basket. He wasn't sure what to do with that. How to answer without sounding like he wanted it too. So he did what he always did when his heart got too close to his mouth. He smirked.

"Well," Hudson said, leaning in slightly, "maybe it's because you're finally talking to someone who doesn't know your entire dating history."

Liam laughed softly, eyes crinkling. "That does help."

Their gazes held, and for a second, the silence returned. Hudson glanced around the empty restaurant again. The corners of the room receded into shadow. The cage booth, meant to be a novelty, now felt like a confession.

"It's too dark in here," Hudson said, rubbing the back of his neck. He tried to make it sound casual, but the unease still threaded through.

Liam's eyes stayed on him. "I like it that way."

"Of course you do," Hudson muttered, half amused, half wary.

Liam's mouth curved. "You're uncomfortable." Hudson's shoulders rose in a defensive shrug. Liam lifted an eyebrow. "About what?"

Hudson hesitated. He didn't want to say the obvious out loud. He wasn't afraid of Liam, exactly. He was afraid of the situation. Of what it implied. Of what it invited. He swallowed.

"Tell me the truth," Hudson said.

Liam's smile faded a fraction. "I have been."

"No," Hudson pressed, voice a little sharper. "I mean...why?"

"Why what?" Liam replied.

"Why did you ask me to stay behind?"

Liam looked at him for a long moment. The guard rails returned, subtle and immediate. He shifted in the booth, fingers tightening around the glass, then releasing. His gaze flicked away, just once, toward the locked door, then back.

Hudson watched the struggle in those small movements. The actor choosing an expression, discarding it. The man underneath trying to find words that weren't damaging.

"I..." Liam started, then stopped. Hudson waited, still, patient in a way that surprised even him. Liam exhaled. Almost annoyed, like he resented that honesty required effort. "I enjoy your company," Liam said finally.

Hudson's breath caught.

Liam's eyes stayed on his, steady now, as if once the truth was out, he refused to soften it with jokes. "I wanted to...keep enjoying it," Liam added, quieter.

Silence settled.

Hudson's mouth twitched, as if he didn't know whether to smile or run. He tried to hold it, tried to sit there like a normal person receiving a standard compliment. He failed. A smile cracked across his face, sudden and involuntary. Then he let out a little giggle. It startled him. It sounded wrong, too young, too nervous.

Liam's expression shifted, amusement blooming slowly, warm and fond. "You're laughing," Liam said.

Hudson shook his head, mortified. "I'm not laughing. I'm...apparently malfunctioning. A glitch in my matrix."

Liam's smile deepened. "It's cute."

Hudson dropped his hand, eyes narrowing. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Liam asked, innocent.

"Don't call me cute," Hudson said, but his cheeks were still warm, and his mouth still wanted to smile, so the protest didn't have much bite.

Liam leaned back, pleased. "Why not?"

Hudson exhaled, suddenly needing to move, to break the stillness before it swallowed him whole. "Because," Hudson said, standing abruptly, "I need music."

Liam's brow lifted. "Music."

Hudson gestured toward the far wall, where an old jukebox sat beneath a dim sconce light, with chrome edges and scratched glass, the kind of thing that looked like it had been there longer than the restaurant had existed.

"Yeah," Hudson said, already walking away. "Because this is starting to feel like a murder documentary."

Liam's laugh followed him. "A murder documentary?"

Hudson called back over his shoulder. "Yeah. Where the handsome suspect says he just wanted company, and then the narrator says he wasn't alone for long."

Liam's voice spoke, amused. "I'm not going to kill you, Hudson."

Hudson reached the jukebox and ran his fingers over the buttons, trying to remember whether it took coins or miracles. "That's exactly what a killer would say."

The jukebox still had a stack of records behind the glass, older tunes, some new stuff Hudson had put there himself. All a little dusty. Hudson slid open the panel, scanned the titles, and chose one without overthinking. Something slow. Something with a heartbeat. He fed the machine a token from the jar behind the bar, because if he was going to get murdered, he might as well steal first, then pressed the selection.

The record dropped with a soft mechanical clunk.

A moment later, music poured into the restaurant like warm smoke, smooth and low. Hudson turned, letting the sound settle, and walked back toward the cage. The music followed him, filling the space between tables, sliding along the bar, softening the silence into something less sharp. When he sat down again, he felt different, less trapped in the quiet, less aware of himself.

Liam listened for a moment, eyes half-lidded.

Hudson cleared his throat, aiming for casual. "Okay. So...what do you actually listen to when you're not being a cryptic movie star in a locked restaurant?"

Liam's mouth curled. He paused, as if deciding how much honesty the subject required, then, to Hudson's surprise, he answered without much ceremony. "Obscure indie," Liam said.

Hudson made a face. "Obscure indie. That sounds like you own a typewriter and hate sunlight."

Liam's smile widened. "I do hate sunlight."

Hudson laughed. "Of course you do."

"And I don't own a typewriter," Liam added, wounded. "I borrow one from my sadness."

Hudson covered his grin with his hand. "That was a very obscure indie thing to say."

Liam shrugged, unbothered. "I think it's important to stay on-brand."

Hudson leaned in, intrigued despite himself. "Okay, name names. Give me...three."

Liam's eyes narrowed in playful challenge. "You're going to judge me."

"I'm already judging you," Hudson said. "But I'm open-minded."

Liam's gaze flicked over Hudson's face like he was cataloguing whether Hudson could be trusted with his precious little sad-boy playlist.

Then, almost shyly, almost, he said, "Bon Iver."

Hudson nodded, surprised. "Okay. That's not obscure. That's...emotionally mainstream."

Liam's mouth twitched. "Fine. Phoebe Bridgers."

Hudson's eyebrows shot up. "Oh. You're a feelings person."

Liam lifted his hands. "Allegedly."

Hudson's grin softened. "I love Phoebe, by the way."

Liam blinked, genuinely pleased. "You do?"

Hudson nodded. "Yeah. 'Motion Sickness' has ruined me more than once."

Liam's smile warmed. "Okay...points for you."

Hudson leaned back, smug. "Thank you. I'll accept my award."

Liam's gaze stayed on him, amused. "Third one?"

Hudson leaned forward again, excited now. "Yeah. Third."

Liam hesitated, then said, "Sufjan Stevens."

Hudson made a low sound of recognition. "Okay, no, that's..."

Liam's eyes sharpened. "What?"

"That's definitely gay," Hudson said bluntly.

Liam froze. Hudson realized, belatedly, that he'd said it too easily, like he'd touched the electric wire and forgot it could shock. Heat rose in his cheeks. Then Liam laughed, startled and genuine, and Hudson exhaled like he'd been holding his breath.

"That's gay?" Liam repeated, delighted.

Hudson gestured helplessly. "It's melancholic. It's beautiful. It's..."

"It's gay," Liam finished, still smiling.

Hudson nodded. "Yeah."

Liam studied Hudson a beat longer than the joke required, eyes warm, and then said, lightly, "Noted."

Hudson cleared his throat, grabbed the basket of fries, and turned his attention back where it belonged. "Okay," Hudson said. "My turn."

Liam tilted his head. "Yes, please. Tell me what twenty-two-year-old waiters listen to when they're not…" He gestured at the locked restaurant, amused. "Defying labor laws."

Hudson snorted. "Alternative pop."

Liam's eyebrow lifted. "That's vague."

Hudson leaned back, thinking. "Okay. Like...Lorde."

Liam's eyes narrowed. "Lorde is not alternative. Lorde is...widely worshipped."

Hudson smiled. "Exactly. A religion."

Liam's mouth twitched. "Fine. Continue."

"Robyn," Hudson added, warming up. "Bleachers. Sometimes The 1975, but only when I want to hate myself a little."

Liam laughed softly. "That last part makes it sound like you're also an obscure indie person."

"I'm an emotionally responsible pop person," Hudson corrected. "There's a difference."

Liam tilted his head. "Emotionally responsible."

Hudson nodded. "Yes. I process my feelings with catchy hooks."

Liam's gaze slid over him, amused. "And yet, you're making fun of me for processing mine with sad acoustic guitars."

Hudson pointed. "Yes. Because sad acoustic guitars are a cry for help."

Liam leaned forward slightly. "Pop music is a cry for help with glitter."

Hudson's grin widened. "Wrong. It's glamorous suffering."

Liam shook his head, smiling. Then his eyes flickered, with that brief pause where something more intimate tried to surface, and he smoothed it over.

Hudson rolled his eyes. "Okay, Mr. Obscure Indie. What do you listen to when you're trying to feel...better?"

Liam considered. "Better?"

"Yeah," Hudson said. "Not sad. Like...when you want to feel alive."

Liam's mouth opened, then closed, like he wasn't used to being asked that kind of question. It wasn't invasive, but it was oddly precise. Finally, he said, "Fleet Foxes."

Hudson blinked. "That's still kind of...forest sadness."

Liam's smile sharpened. "It's not sadness. It's...reverence."

Hudson squinted. "For trees."

"For existence," Liam corrected.

Hudson laughed, then sobered slightly. "Okay, okay. I get it. I've had my existential playlists too."

Liam's eyes warmed. "Yeah?"

Hudson nodded. "Like, when I put on something like Lana Del Rey, and suddenly I'm a tragic heroine smoking on a fancy balcony I'll never own." Liam's laugh came out soft and delighted. Hudson shrugged, pretending dignity. "It's called imagination."

Liam leaned back, smiling. "So you're Lorde, Robyn, Lana, Bleachers…"

Hudson nodded. "And a little Troye Sivan when I'm feeling slutty."

"Troye," Liam repeated quietly.

Hudson smiled. "Yeah. Don't judge me."

Liam's gaze held his. "I'm not."

Hudson arched a brow. "You like him?"

Liam hesitated, then admitted, "There's a song that..." He stopped, then waved it off like he'd revealed too much. "Yeah. I like him."

Hudson's grin returned. "See? You're not all obscure indie sadness."

"I never said I was," Liam protested.

"You did," Hudson insisted. "You basically walked in here and said, 'Hello, I'm Liam Hart, and I only listen to songs recorded in abandoned barns.'"

Liam laughed, then leaned in slightly. "Fine. If you're so enlightened, prove it. Find common ground."

Hudson tapped his chin theatrically, then pointed at Liam. "Okay. You like Phoebe Bridgers." Liam nodded. Hudson pointed to himself. "I like Phoebe Bridgers." Liam's smile deepened. Hudson continued, lighter. "So we meet in the middle: songs that sound like heartbreak but also kind of slap you in the face."

Liam laughed softly. "That's...accurate."

Hudson lifted the fry basket between them like a peace offering. "Also, universal common ground: fries."

Liam's eyes crinkled. "Fries are the great equalizer."

Hudson nodded solemnly. "I told you. They unite nations."

*

An hour later, the jukebox still breathed music.

At the cage table, the fry basket had been replaced by a deck of cards and two sweating glasses.

Hudson leaned over the table, squinting at his hand like the cards were personally insulting him. "I'm telling you," he said, tapping the corner of one card, "you're cheating."

Across from him, Liam looked infuriatingly calm. He held his cards loosely, elbow propped on the booth, mouth curved in that small, satisfied smile that made Hudson want to throw a napkin at him.

"I'm not cheating," Liam said. "You're just losing."

Hudson scoffed. "I'm not losing."

Liam's eyebrows lifted. "You have a pile of shame cards the size of a small country."

Hudson glanced at the messy stack near his side and waved it off like it was irrelevant. "That's strategy."

"That's denial," Liam corrected.

Hudson leaned back, offended on principle. "You're acting very smug for a man who can't name five friends."

Liam laughed and flicked a card down onto the table with casual confidence. "Pick up two."

Hudson stared. "That's not...You can't just..."

"Pick up two," Liam repeated, voice warm with amusement.

Hudson slowly drew two cards from the deck, his eyes narrowing as if he were preparing a lawsuit. "You're enjoying this."

Liam's smile widened. "I'm enjoying you."

Hudson froze for half a second, long enough for the words to land somewhere soft, then recovered with a snort. "Gross. Don't get all emotional. It's a card game."

Liam's gaze lingered on him, fondness threaded under the teasing. "You're emotional."

"I'm competitive," Hudson corrected. He slapped down a card with unnecessary force. "Reverse."

Liam's expression didn't change. He simply placed a card down on top of it. "Reverse," he echoed.

Hudson's mouth fell open. "No."

Liam leaned back, pleased. "Yes."

Hudson pointed at him. "You literally waited until I played that. You were holding it."

"I'm patient," Liam said smoothly.

Hudson squinted. "You're evil."

"I have charm," Liam replied.

Hudson made a disgusted sound. "You have a PR team."

Liam laughed again, then rubbed the back of his neck, shifting slightly in the booth. The hoodie he'd been wearing all night suddenly felt too heavy for the warmth that had gathered between them. He tugged at the collar once, then twice, as if testing how much skin he could reveal without changing the narrative.

Hudson's eyes flicked up automatically.

Liam's hands moved to the hem of the hoodie, and he pulled it over his head in one smooth motion, absentmindedly, like shedding a layer of defense. For a second, the tank top underneath rode up with the motion. Hudson saw it, just a glimpse, brief and devastating: the hard line of Liam's stomach, the clean cut of muscle. The kind of body that didn't look sculpted for admiration so much as built from discipline and stress and long days that demanded stamina.

Hudson's throat went dry on the spot.

He didn't move.

He didn't breathe properly.

He watched, like his brain had paused to take a photograph. Liam's tank top fell back into place. He tossed the hoodie to the side, hair slightly messier now, face more open without the shadow of fabric framing it.

Then his eyes lifted, and caught Hudson looking.

Hudson's cheeks warmed so fast it felt like heat had been poured into him. He tried to blink his way back to normal, to reassemble his face into something casual. But Liam didn't tease him. He didn't smirk or comment or make a joke that would let Hudson off the hook. He just held Hudson's gaze for a quiet second, then looked down at the cards again as if nothing had happened.

That choice, pretending not to notice, was almost worse.

Because it made the moment feel deliberate.

Liam exhaled and rolled his shoulders once, settling into the booth with a new ease. Then he glanced at Hudson's chest, at the tie strings, at the restaurant logo on Hudson's apron like it offended him.

"Ditch the apron," Liam said.

Hudson blinked. "What?"

Liam's tone remained calm, but there was a gentle firmness beneath it. "You're not working anymore."

Hudson's mouth tried to form an argument. Habit rose as usual, rules, jobs, lines not to cross. Then Hudson realized the restaurant was locked, the staff was gone, the music was playing for no one else, and Liam Hart was asking him to stop being a role for five minutes.

Hudson swallowed. "Fine," he said, quieter than before.

He stood, fingers clumsy at the knot. The apron came loose with a soft tug. He slipped it over his head and folded it once, twice. He slid back into his seat. He cleared his throat and grabbed a card from the pile with exaggerated bravado.

"Alright," he said, forcing his voice back into playful territory, "now that we're both indecently dressed for a card game..."

Liam's mouth curved faintly. "I'm not naked."

Hudson arched a brow. "Exactly. Indecent." Liam leaned back, amused. Hudson flicked a card down. "Wild."

Liam's eyebrows lifted. "Already?"

Hudson smiled, sharp and triumphant. "Yeah. And guess what color I'm picking?"

Liam studied him, eyes bright with challenge. "If you say red, I'm leaving."

Hudson's grin widened. "Red."

Liam stared at him in mock horror. "You're a fucking monster."

Hudson leaned in, pleased with himself. "Pick up four."

Liam exhaled a laugh, slow and warm, as he reached for the deck. He fanned his cards once, then let them fall back into his hand like he'd lost interest in pretending he was focused. He lifted his glass instead and gave it a small, thoughtful shake. The ice clinked, lonely.

"I think," Liam said, gaze flicking up to Hudson, "we're ready for something stronger."

Hudson's eyebrows lifted. "Stronger than soda water?" Liam's mouth curved. Hudson leaned back, considering him with mock seriousness. "Okay. So what's your poison, Liam Hart?"

Liam's eyes glinted. "Guess."

Hudson scoffed. "You want me to guess your favorite drink? That's a trap."

"It's a game," Liam said, leaning in slightly. "Like cards."

Hudson's gaze drifted over Liam's bare arms in the tank top, lean muscle, the quiet strength in the way he held himself, and Hudson had to fight the urge to stare again. Fuck, he was hot. He forced his eyes back to Liam's face.

"Alright," Hudson said, tapping his lip with exaggerated thought. "You strike me as..."

Liam's eyebrows rose, amused. "Careful."

Hudson ignored him. "You're definitely not a tequila guy. Too chaotic. You're not a beer guy either. Too...normal," he pressed on. "You're also not..." he squinted at Liam as if studying a rare species. "...a vodka soda guy. That's what people order when they don't want to be perceived."

Liam's mouth twitched. "I feel attacked."

Hudson snapped his fingers. "Whiskey."

Liam went still.

Hudson's grin widened. "And not the fancy kind. Not the 'I read one article about peat' whiskey. You're..."

Liam's eyes narrowed, entertained. "Go on."

Hudson leaned forward, delighted with his own detective work. "Yeah. You're a bourbon guy. Neat. Or maybe one big ice cube if you're pretending you're not all up in your feelings."

Liam stared at him for the longest beat. Then his smile broke, slow and genuine. "You got it on the first try," Liam said.

Hudson's shoulders lifted in a smug little shrug. "I'm intuitive." Then pointed at Liam. "So. Bourbon. Neat. Hot 50-year-old man drink."

Liam's laugh came out soft and surprised. "Hot 50-year-old man drink?"

Hudson nodded, dead serious. "Yeah."

Liam leaned back, amused. "I'm twenty-five."

Hudson's eyes flicked over him, over the tank top, the bare arms, the calm authority in the way he occupied the space. "I know," Hudson said. "But you give...hot fifty-year-old daddy vibes."

Liam stared at him, a quiet heat in his eyes now, and Hudson felt that, like being seen in a way that made him want to look away and lean in at the same time.

"Just," Liam said, voice lower, "go make the drinks."

Hudson stood, grateful for an excuse to move, and headed toward the bar with a little too much purpose, like briskness could hide nerves. "Two bourbons," he said over his shoulder. "One for the hot fifty-year-old. One for the hostage."

Liam's laugh followed him.

Hudson reached the bar and slipped behind it. He found the bourbon on the mid-shelf, not cheap but not museum-quality, and grabbed two lowball glasses. He dropped ice into one of them out of habit, then hesitated. He glanced back toward the cage. Liam was watching him with the same quiet attention as earlier, like Hudson was the only interesting thing left in the room. Hudson swallowed and dumped the ice out again, suddenly feeling absurdly determined to get this right. Neat. Hudson set the bottle down, then turned.

And Liam was there. Right there. Hudson's heart lurched. He hadn't heard him approach. Hadn't noticed the soft shift of footsteps.

Up close and standing, Liam looked different.

Not just beautiful, Hudson had already accepted that as a given, but intimidating in a way that had nothing to do with his fame and everything to do with his presence. He was taller than Hudson had registered from the booth. His massive shoulders filled the space. His eyes were steadier than they had any right to be, their chestnut color almost molten.

Hudson forced a laugh because if he didn't, he might do something stupid, like forget how language worked. "Jesus," Hudson said. "Do you always move like a vulture?"

Liam's mouth curved faintly. "Do you always startle that easily?"

Hudson scoffed, trying to reclaim some ground. "You're not allowed to sneak up on people. You're famous."

Liam leaned a fraction closer, as if enjoying the way Hudson's breath hitched. "Famous people can't sneak?"

"No," Hudson said. "You're supposed to announce yourself with, like, a trumpet or something."

Liam's eyes glinted. "I'll work on that."

Hudson grabbed one of the glasses and slid it a few inches away, putting the bourbon between them like a small boundary. "Good."

Liam didn't move behind the bar. He didn't try to. Instead, he walked around the outside and sat on one of the benches, an upholstered strip along the wall that looked like it had been built for quiet flirting.

He leaned back, one arm draped along the top, posture effortless again, too effortless, like he'd done this a thousand times in rooms far more expensive than this one. Hudson stayed behind the counter, suddenly aware of the difference in positions: Liam seated like a king, Hudson standing like a bartender in a movie.

Hudson tried not to overthink it. He picked up Liam's glass and slid it across the counter. The bourbon glided smoothly, stopping right in front of Liam's hand. Liam wrapped his fingers around it, eyes never leaving Hudson.

Hudson lifted his own glass. "To...breaking labor laws."

Liam's mouth curved. "To being terrible influences."

They clinked glasses.

Liam took a sip first. His throat moved with the swallow. His eyes didn't leave Hudson's. Hudson sipped too, the bourbon warming his chest, loosening something in him that had been wound too tight all night.

And finally, they smiled at each other over the rim of their glasses.

They stayed like that for a while, facing each other across the bar, the counter stretched out like a polite chalk line. Hudson kept thinking he should say something. Not because the silence was hostile. It wasn't. In fact, it was almost gentle. But Hudson had never been good at being gentle. Gentle made him feel seen.

Liam watched him over the rim of his glass, as if Hudson's fidgeting was more entertaining than any conversation. "You don't like silence," Liam said at last.

Hudson blinked. "Sure, I do." Liam lifted an eyebrow. Hudson sighed, exposed. "Okay. I don't like this silence."

"This silence," Liam echoed, amused.

"It's awkward," Hudson said, rolling the glass between his fingers.

Liam's mouth curved, the smile slow and knowing. "You think this is awkward?"

Hudson pointed at the empty restaurant, the locked door, the low lights. "We're alone. At a bar. After hours. Drinking."

Liam took another sip, eyes still on Hudson. "That's not awkward. That's...classic."

Hudson snorted. "Classic is a candle. Classic is a fireplace. This is..."

"A hostage situation?" Liam supplied.

Hudson nodded, relieved. "Exactly."

Liam's gaze warmed. "If you want awkward, you should try filming sex scenes."

Hudson froze with his glass halfway to his mouth. He lowered it slowly and leaned on the counter with one forearm, suddenly very interested in appearing casual. "Okay, so...when you say 'filming sex scenes'..."

Liam watched him, amused. "Yes?"

Hudson cleared his throat. "It's...awkward?"

Liam's eyes flicked over Hudson's face, as if enjoying the way Hudson tried to sound detached while being unmistakably curious.

"Painfully so," Liam said. "Not...anything like people imagine."

Hudson's brow furrowed. "What do people imagine?"

Liam smiled. "They imagine chemistry. Passion. Like the camera disappears and everyone forgets what they're doing."

"And that's not it?" Hudson asked, and he hated how attentive his voice sounded.

Liam let out a soft laugh and set his glass down. "No," Liam said. "It's choreography. Marks on the floor. Ten people watching. Someone adjusting your hair. Someone yelling 'Hold!' because the lighting is wrong."

Hudson's mouth parted, incredulous. "Ten people?"

"More," Liam said, as if admitting to a crime. "Sometimes there's a guy whose entire job is to make sure you don't...accidentally show more than you're supposed to."

Hudson's eyes widened. "There's a person for that?"

Liam's smile turned wicked. "Oh, yeah."

Hudson laughed, a quick burst. "That is...God. That's awful."

"It's professional," Liam corrected, but he was grinning now. "And humiliating as fuck."

Hudson shook his head. "So you're telling me all those scenes that look..."

"Romantic," Liam supplied.

"Intense," Hudson corrected, then immediately regretted the word.

Liam's gaze dipped briefly, as if catching the slip and choosing not to make it cruel. "Intense," Liam repeated, and the way he said it made Hudson's skin prickle.

Hudson hurried on. "They're basically...math."

Liam nodded. "Pretty much. You're counting beats in your head. You're thinking, 'Okay, shift here, hand goes there, pause, breathe, don't block the light.' And then someone shouts 'Cut!' and everyone claps like you've just done something incredible when really you just...managed not to bump your head on the bedframe."

Hudson blinked. "They clap?"

Liam laughed. "Sometimes. It depends on the set. Some sets are very...supportive."

Hudson snorted. "That's the nicest way anyone's ever described a room full of strangers watching you."

Liam lifted his glass again, but he didn't drink. He just rolled it slowly between his fingers. "It's not the watching," Liam said, quieter. "It's...the pretending."

Hudson's restlessness stilled a fraction. "Pretending what?"

Liam's gaze held his, steady and almost careful. "Pretending it means something. Pretending you're not aware of every camera angle. Pretending you're not thinking about whether your breath sounds wrong."

Hudson swallowed, struck by the odd intimacy of that confession. It wasn't about sex, really. It was about performance. About being seen. About the exhaustion of always being aware of the frame.

Hudson tried to lighten it because sincerity made him feel as if he were standing too close to a flame. "So your job is pretending to want people," Hudson said.

Liam's smile returned, slowly. "Sometimes."

Hudson lifted his eyebrows. "And?"

Liam leaned forward a little, resting one forearm on the bench and letting the distance shrink in a way that felt casual, too casual to be accidental. "And what?" Liam asked.

Hudson's pulse ticked louder. "And you're good at it."

Liam's eyes narrowed with amusement. "I'm paid to be."

Hudson took a sip of bourbon and immediately regretted it because it warmed him too fast, loosened his tongue too easily. "I can't imagine pretending," Hudson said, then corrected himself with a quick shake of his head. "No. That's not true. I pretend all the time. I just..."

Liam watched him, attentive. "You just don't get paid for it."

They fell into another quiet pause, less awkward now. Hudson noticed, suddenly, how close Liam's forearm was to the edge of the counter. How Liam's hand rested there, relaxed, fingers slightly curled. He noticed his own posture too, how he'd drifted closer without meaning to, hips brushing the inside of the bar as he leaned in. How the counter between them didn't feel like a wall anymore, just an object that happened to be there.

Liam moved first. Barely.

A micro shift, his elbow sliding an inch closer, his shoulders angling forward. His eyes didn't leave Hudson's. And Hudson, without realizing it, mirrored him. He leaned in too, drawn by something he clearly couldn't stop.

Hudson's voice came out softer. "So when you film those scenes..."

Liam's gaze flicked to Hudson's mouth, then back up. "Yeah?"

Hudson's throat tightened. "Do you ever..." He stopped, unsure. "Do you ever feel anything real?"

Liam's expression stilled. For a second, Hudson thought he'd asked too much. Then Liam answered.

"Sometimes," Liam said. "But it's rare. And dangerous."

Hudson swallowed. "Dangerous?"

Liam nodded once. "Because people mistake it. They think you owe them something because the camera caught a feeling."

Hudson's skin prickled again. He didn't know if Liam meant co-stars, audiences, lovers, or all of it. Maybe Liam didn't know either.

Hudson tried to joke because that was his instinctive shield, but his voice betrayed him, too low, too sincere. "Sounds like you're saying the real thing is harder than the fake thing," Hudson said.

Liam's eyes held his. "It is."

They kept leaning, inch by inch, like neither of them could tell who'd started it. Hudson's hands rested on the counter now. Liam's hand drifted closer too, palm down, fingers relaxed. Still not touching. Not yet.

And that's when Hudson became aware of the sound of Liam's breathing. Then Liam spoke again, something small, almost an aside, and the words carried across the last few inches of space with warmth on them. Hudson felt it. Liam's breath, faint against Hudson's face, a soft brush of air that shouldn't have been anything and somehow was everything.

Hudson's mind went blank.

It was utterly intoxicating.

Then survival kicked in.

He pulled back quickly, a short, sharp movement, as if he'd brushed against a hot pan, and the sound that came out of him was a snort. Not sexy. Not suave. A fucking snort.

He hated himself immediately.

Liam didn't move. He just watched, like he'd expected Hudson to retreat, and found it interesting. Hudson lifted his glass like it was a shield, took a sip he didn't need, and then, because he could not, under any circumstances, let Liam sit there looking that calm after nearly rearranging Hudson's nervous system with a breath, Hudson pointed at him.

"Congratulations," Hudson said.

Liam's brow lifted. "For what?"

Hudson shook his head, incredulous, laughing under his breath. "Oh, you're good."

Liam's mouth twitched. "Good at what?"

Hudson waved a hand vaguely between them, as if the air itself had been weaponized. "That. The...thing. The acting. The..." He made a helpless, circular motion. "The Liam Hart Experience."

Liam's smile deepened, slow and unbothered. "I wasn't acting."

Hudson immediately refused to hear that. "Nope," he said briskly. "We're not doing that. We're not doing...breath-related incidents."

Liam's eyes warmed with amusement. "Breath-related incidents."

Hudson nodded, decisive. "New topic."

Liam leaned back a fraction, still smiling. "Okay."

Hudson blurted the first thing that popped into his head, something so random it could only have come from panic. "What's your zodiac sign?"

There was a beat.

Liam stared at him like Hudson had asked him to solve a calculus equation. "My what?"

Hudson's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Your zodiac sign."

Liam blinked. "I don't know."

Hudson narrowed his eyes. "You don't know?"

Liam lifted a hand, defensive. "No."

Hudson leaned in, appalled. "Liam. Everyone knows their zodiac sign," he said.

Liam shook his head. "I don't."

Hudson stared at him, then made a face. "You're telling me you don't know if you're a Capricorn or a Scorpio or..."

"I know I'm not a scorpion," Liam said, deadpan.

Hudson burst out laughing. "Not...Liam. Not an actual scorpion."

Liam's eyes crinkled. "How would I know? You just asked me my zodiac sign like it's a password."

"It is a password," Hudson insisted. "It tells me everything I need to know."

Liam angled his head, amused. "Like what?"

"Like whether you're emotionally avoidant," Hudson said without thinking.

Liam's smile sharpened. "And?"

Hudson paused, realized what he'd said, and quickly backpedaled with a wave of his hand. "Or not. It's just...vibes. It's fun."

Liam leaned forward slightly, eyebrows raised. "So you believe in it."

Hudson shrugged, trying for casual. "I believe in...patterns."

Liam's tone turned teasing. "You believe in planets telling you whether I'm a good person."

Hudson tilted his head. "I didn't say good person. I said emotionally avoidant."

Liam laughed. "That feels targeted."

"It's observational," Hudson said.

Liam's gaze drifted over Hudson's face, and the warmth in it made Hudson's skin feel too tight.

"Okay," Liam said. "So what's your sign?"

Hudson's eyes lit up, grateful to have an advantage again. "I'm a Libra."

Liam blinked. "What does that mean?"

Hudson sat back, delighted. "It means I'm charming, indecisive, and I flirt when I'm nervous."

Liam's eyebrows lifted. "Guess you're nervous."

Hudson opened his mouth, then shut it. "Shut the fuck up."

Liam smiled wider. "So what am I, then?"

Hudson squinted at him like he could read his birth chart through bone structure. "You're so giving Scorpio."

Liam looked alarmed. "Is that bad?"

Hudson snorted. "It's...intense."

Liam's eyes glittered. "Intense is bad?"

Hudson's breath caught, but he kept his face steady. "Intense is...anyway."

Liam leaned back, still amused. "You're really into this."

Hudson lifted his chin, defensive again, but playful now. "Of course I am."

Liam's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Hudson shrugged like it was obvious. "Because I'm gay." Liam's smile faltered into something softer for half a second, fondness, maybe, or something like it. "It comes with benefits."

Liam laughed. "Like astrology."

"Like astrology," Hudson confirmed. "Knowing everyone's rising sign. Pretending Mercury retrograde is a real excuse for texting your ex at inappropriate times."

Liam's eyes widened. "People do that?"

Hudson stared at him. "Liam." Liam held up his hands. Hudson leaned forward, animated now, the conversation safely silly. "Okay. So you have your sun sign, your moon sign, your rising sign..."

Liam stared, amused and bewildered. "How many signs do I have?"

"Everyone has a bunch of them," Hudson said, as if explaining basic math. "It's a whole chart."

Liam squinted. "This feels like a scam."

Hudson gasped. "It's not a scam. It's an ancient cosmic language."

Liam's mouth curved. "You sound like a cult leader."

"I grew up in Arizona," Hudson said, and the way he said it made it sound like an explanation for everything.

Liam's gaze warmed. "I remember."

Hudson's smile turned shy. "I had too much time," he murmured, "and very little to do."

Liam watched him like that sentence had done something quietly devastating to him, something sweet and human and unfair. Then Liam lifted his glass toward Hudson again, eyes bright with a teasing challenge.

"Alright," Liam said. "Teach me your cosmic cult ways."

Hudson raised his own glass, grinning despite himself. "Gladly," he said. "But first, I need your birthday."

Liam's smile sharpened. "Well, that'll depend."

Hudson narrowed his eyes. "On what?"

Liam leaned in the tiniest bit, voice low with amusement. "On whether you're going to use it to ruin my life," Liam said.

Hudson's laugh came out soft. "Liam, your life is already ruined. You date people for press."

*

Two hours later, the restaurant felt less like a crime scene and more like a private afterparty thrown by two men who had forgotten the rest of the world existed.

The bar counter was a mess. Two empty lowball glasses pushed aside, a third sweating near Liam's hand, the bourbon bottle lowered a good inch from where it had started. The cards lay abandoned in a sloppy fan. Hudson's phone sat face-up like an oracle, a birth chart app still open, the screen glowing with little planetary symbols and tiny, judgmental notes.

Hudson had made Liam recite his birth time twice, and Liam had accused him of witchcraft three times.

Now Hudson leaned on his elbows behind the counter, eyes bright and unfocused, hair messier than before, cheeks flushed with warmth and alcohol and a shallow sense of victory.

Liam sat on the bench opposite him with his tank top slightly wrinkled. His face was looser now, less guarded, less arranged. Even his laughter had changed. It came easier, like the sound knew the way out without being guided.

Hudson jabbed a finger at the phone screen. "Look at this."

Liam squinted like the symbols were written in another language. "It makes me look like a...like a study case."

Hudson nodded gravely. "You are a study case."

Liam blinked, offended and amused at once. "Excuse me?"

Hudson's smile went wide, absurdly fond. "We all are," he said, as if revealing a sacred truth. "Just little traumatized planets spinning around in our own disasters."

Liam stared at him, then laughed. "That's the most unhinged thing you've said all night."

Hudson pointed at him with a dramatic wobble. "And yet you're still here."

"I'm trapped," Liam said, solemn.

Hudson's eyes glittered. "You're enchanted."

Liam lifted his glass. "I'm drunk."

Hudson lifted his own glass in answer. "Same thing."

The jukebox clunked, as if clearing its throat.

Then it hit them, bright, sharp, unapologetic: a guitar riff that cut through the room like someone flicked on a neon sign inside the air. Hudson's head snapped toward the sound. For a second, he went perfectly still, listening. Recognition spread across his face so fast it looked like sunrise. Then he swung off his spot behind the counter with sudden, delighted violence, nearly knocking a napkin holder sideways.

"Fuck," Hudson yelled, grinning like a kid who'd just been handed the keys to a car he wasn't old enough to drive. "I love this song."

It was The Knack's "My Sharona", all swagger and snap. Hudson was already moving before his brain could catch up. He came around from behind the bar, stumbled once, caught himself, and then the music hooked into him like it had been waiting. His body found the beat because clearly it knew it by heart.

Liam didn't speak.

He just watched.

Hudson danced like no one was there, which was its own kind of magic because someone was there, and that someone had spent his entire life being watched. Maybe that was why it hit Liam so hard, this reckless freedom, this careless joy performed for nobody and therefore for the pure pleasure of it.

Hudson's raven hair fell into his eyes as he moved, curls loosening and bouncing with each shake of his head. He shoved it back with the heel of his hand, then forgot about it entirely and let it fall again. The turquoise of his eyes caught the light whenever he turned, flashing bright and vivid, like water reflecting sunlight on its surface.

He wasn't dancing neatly. He obviously wasn't dancing to impress.

He danced with his whole body, hips loose, shoulders rolling, knees bending into the rhythm like he was made of elastic and nerve. He threw one arm up and snapped it down, laughing at himself. He pointed at the jukebox, spun too fast, wobbled, corrected with a swagger he absolutely did not possess sober, and it somehow worked.

The alcohol made him unguarded, but it didn't make him sloppy. It made him brave.

Hudson's shirt clung to him, the fabric catching at the planes of his chest and stomach as he moved. When he twisted, Liam saw the stretch of his torso under cotton, the way Hudson's ribs shifted, the way the muscles at his waist pulled tight and released again, clean, young strength built from long shifts and restless energy, not vanity.

His forearms flexed as he pumped his hands to the beat, veins faintly visible. His fingers, the same fingers that had carried trays and shuffled cards and tapped at birth chart apps, now snapped in the air, clumsy but confident. Hudson's jaw looked sharper in motion, his mouth red and soft from bourbon and laughing. He sang along silently, no lyrics, just the shape of them, mouth opening wide on the chorus, then breaking into a grin like he didn't care how ridiculous he looked.

And the thing was: he didn't look ridiculous.

Anything but.

He looked alive.

At one point, he ran his hands down the sides of his torso in mock drama, then threw his head back laughing at his own theatrics. He was a little unsteady, but he owned it. The wobble became part of the dance. The stumble became a flourish. He made a joke out of gravity.

Liam sat there, glass forgotten in his hand, watching as if he couldn't look away even if he tried. It wasn't just attraction, though it was that too, an undeniable pull to the line of Hudson's neck when he tilted his head, to the way his shirt rode up a fraction when he lifted his arms, to the flash of skin at his waistband when he turned too hard. It was something deeper.

Hudson moved like he didn't need permission. Like the only audience that mattered was the part of himself that had once been trapped somewhere dry and small and had finally found air.

Liam's eyes tracked him with a steadiness that felt almost reverent. The actor, trained to read bodies, trained to detect the lie between movement and intention, couldn't find a single lie in Hudson's dancing.

There was nothing calculated there.

Just joy.

And freedom.

Hudson was still riding the high of his own ridiculous bravery when he crossed the room like a comet, fast, unbothered by gravity. He reached Liam before Liam could decide whether to look away, and without asking permission in words, only in the open grin on his face, Hudson grabbed Liam's hand.

"Come on," Hudson said, breathless. "You're not allowed to just sit there looking like a tragic rich painting."

Liam blinked, caught off guard. His first instinct was visible: the small stiffness in his shoulders, the flicker of calculation in his eyes, the automatic How do I look? Where's the camera? What's the frame? reflex that lived in his bones.

"I..." Liam started. Hudson tugged harder. Liam's laugh came out at the same time as his surrender. "Hudson..."

"You can sue me later," Hudson said, already pulling him up.

Liam stood.

Up close, upright, Liam had more gravity than Hudson remembered, height, breadth. Hudson didn't let himself think about that. Thinking would ruin it. He dragged Liam toward the open space by the jukebox, still grinning, still loose, his heart loud in his chest. Liam moved with him, awkward, yes, but willing. His hand stayed in Hudson's. He didn't yank away. He didn't stiffen into refusal. He let himself be led, as if curiosity had finally outweighed fear.

They reached the jukebox. And right on the verge of Hudson's victory, the record ended. The music dropped out with a clunk so abrupt it felt like the room inhaled. For a second, the silence came back, sharp, exposing.

Then the jukebox clicked again, and a new song poured into the air. Phoebe Bridgers' "Smoke Signals." The kind of song that didn't dance so much as hovered.

Liam glanced at the jukebox, then back at Hudson, as if waiting to see whether Hudson would pivot back into silliness or let the tenderness take the wheel. Hudson stared at Liam, blinking, pupils wide, cheeks still flushed, and then a giggle bubbled out of him, incongruent against the mournful opening notes.

"Oh my God," Hudson whispered, laughing.

Liam's mouth curved, amused. "Your cosmic cult leader jukebox has taste."

Hudson snorted, then looked up at Liam again. The drunken brightness in Hudson's face softened, shifted into something more daring. More intimate. And before he could overthink it, before his courage could evaporate, Hudson stepped in.

He pulled Liam closer by the hand they were still holding and said, almost shyly, almost brazenly, "We might as well."

Liam's gaze held his, unreadable for a beat.

Then Liam nodded once, small and quiet.

Hudson's laughter faded into a smile as he moved closer, guiding Liam's hand to his waist with a nonchalant charge that felt entirely invented, like he'd watched enough movies to fake the choreography.

Liam hesitated for half a second, then allowed it.

Their bodies found the shape of the song, the way people sometimes do when they don't want to talk anymore. Gradually. Not touching too much, then touching a little more. Hudson tried to break the tension because that was how he survived tenderness: he made a joke out of it before it could make him cry.

"So," Hudson murmured, swaying them, voice soft and amused, "have you ever danced this close to a gay guy before?"

Liam's eyebrows lifted. His smile turned wicked. "Probably," he said. "We're in Hollywood."

Their swaying became less awkward, more synchronized. Liam stopped thinking so hard about his feet. Hudson stopped performing confidently and began to move. The music curled around them, and they drifted into each other, chest to chest now, the space between them thinning until there wasn't much left but warmth. Hudson felt the shape of Liam through fabric, the breadth of his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the quiet strength in his arms.

And then, without warning, without asking his own permission, Hudson wrapped his arms around Liam's neck. His hands slid over Liam's broad back, fingers spreading. The contact was instant heat, immediate safety, like stepping into a warm room.

Liam went still. Not in alarm. In surprise. His head dipped slightly, as if he were adjusting to being held rather than holding himself.

His voice came out near Hudson's ear, low and amused. "I thought this was awkward for you," Liam said.

Hudson's laugh came softer this time, more breath than sound. He let his forehead fall onto Liam's shoulder, the gesture intimate and unguarded, like exhaustion finally finding somewhere to rest. He exhaled. Liam smiled. Hudson could feel it against his skin even without seeing it.

For a few seconds, Liam didn't move his hands. He let Hudson hold him. He let Hudson decide the pace. Hudson's body relaxed into the embrace, the bourbon, the music, and the impossible quiet making everything feel simpler than it had any right to be.

Then, slowly, Hudson felt Liam's hands begin to move.

They crawled up Hudson's back, fingers spreading wide. Liam's touch was firm but not possessive, cautious but hungry, in the quiet way that loneliness could be. Liam pulled Hudson in. Not much. Just enough to make it unmistakable. Hudson's breath caught, and the room seemed to tilt slightly, like the world had shifted its weight onto this one small center.

Hudson didn't pull away.

He didn't joke.

He just whispered, so close his mouth barely moved against Liam's shoulder, "This feels nice."

Liam didn't reply.

But he didn't let go, either.

That's when Hudson realized, with a strange shock, that Liam held people for a living on screen, but there was something about the way he held Hudson now that didn't feel like acting. It felt like learning. Liam's fingers flexed once, almost imperceptibly, as if he were reminding himself Hudson was real. And in that quiet closeness, the walls began to crumble, not dramatically, not all at once, but like old plaster finally giving in to years of pressure.

Hudson's wall was made of jokes, speed, and restless movement.

Liam's wall was made of control and practiced distance and a lifetime of being touched by strangers who didn't mean it.

Hudson had something Liam didn't get often: uncomplicated affection.

Liam had something Hudson didn't realize he'd been starving for: the feeling of being chosen without being judged for wanting it.

Outside those locked doors, their lives were planets in different orbits.

One of them could vanish into a crowd.

The other could never disappear anywhere.

But in here, they fit.

Perfectly, in the most impossible way.

*

By dawn, Liam and Hudson had migrated to the floor.

They lay on their backs near the bar, shoes kicked off, limbs loose with that boneless, contented drunkenness that came after you'd run out of the energy to pretend. Liam's arms were stretched out above his head. Hudson had tucked himself into the crook of one of those arms, head casually nestled on Liam's bicep, his cheek warm against skin.

Hudson kept talking. Not because he needed sound anymore, but because he liked what his words did to Liam's face.

"…and I'm telling you," Hudson said, voice scratchy with sleep and bourbon, "if you were a planet, you'd be Pluto."

Liam laughed so hard his chest shook. "Pluto isn't even a planet."

"Exactly," Hudson said, triumphant. "Exiled. Misunderstood. Still hot, though."

Liam wheezed, turning his head toward Hudson with a grin that made him look less like an actor and more like a boy who'd finally been allowed to be stupid. "Still hot?"

Hudson nodded solemnly. "Astronomically hot."

Liam tried to compose himself. Failed. Laughed again, eyes squeezed shut, the sound clean and unguarded. The closed-off part of him, whatever steel brace usually held him in place, was gone, melted down to something startlingly human.

Hudson watched him laugh, as if it were a show made just for him. Then the jokes faded. Not abruptly, gently, like the tide deciding it was done for a while. They slipped into a comfortable silence, both of them feeling the slow crawl of life returning: the ache in their backs from the hard floor, the dryness in their mouths, the sober edges beginning to sharpen at the corners of the moment.

Liam stared up at the ceiling for a long time, blinking slowly, as if he could see his real life waiting there like a second layer of paint.

When he finally spoke, his voice was reluctant, quiet enough that it didn't break the stillness so much as bend it. "Can we...keep this under wraps?" he asked.

Hudson shifted slightly, turning his face up toward Liam. The humor came back for a moment, softer now. "Nobody would believe me," Hudson murmured.

Liam's mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious. "Still."

Hudson exhaled, then rolled onto his side a little so he could look at Liam properly. Morning light softened Liam's features. Hudson's gaze lingered on his face like he was memorizing it for later.

"Don't worry. I'd rather keep it to myself, anyway," Hudson said. Liam's eyes flickered. Hudson continued, voice low, strangely earnest for someone who'd spent the whole night hiding sincerity under jokes. "Like...I don't know," he said. "Something only mine."

The words landed differently than any flirtation.

Liam swallowed. His lashes lowered, then lifted again, and for the first time all night, his eyes shimmered with something close to emotion, quick, like a light trying to turn on in a room that hadn't been used in years.

His hand moved then, gently, afraid a sudden gesture would scare Hudson away. He touched Hudson's chin with the tips of his fingers, guiding it up with gentle insistence. The contact was feather-soft and strangely intimate, like he wasn't just touching Hudson's face but asking permission without speaking.

Liam leaned in.

Like he'd been thinking about it for hours and only now had the courage to follow through. Hudson's body went still, every nerve alert, every breath suddenly too loud. Their faces hovered close enough that Hudson could feel Liam's warmth, could see the faint shadow of stubble along Liam's jaw, could count the tiny seconds in between.

And then Hudson, because he was Hudson, whispered at the last possible moment, "You said you didn't want to fuck me."

Liam paused.

And then he smiled, amused, impossibly tender.

"I didn't say anything about kissing you," he murmured.

Hudson's laugh came out silent and breathy, and it died the moment Liam closed the distance.

Their mouths met.

At first, it was soft, an exploratory press, like a question asked with lips instead of words. Hudson felt Liam's hesitation and answered it instinctively, tilting his mouth into the kiss with a quiet confidence that surprised him.

Then the restraint broke.

Hours of glances, jokes, near-misses, the ache of wanting, rushed through them the moment their lips locked with intention. Liam's mouth moved against Hudson's, warm, slow, and hungry. It felt like relief. Like finally exhaling after holding his breath all his life.

Hudson's hands found Liam's shoulders, then slid up into his hair, fingers threading into the soft mess of blonde. Liam made a low sound, more felt than heard, and Hudson felt it in his chest like a spark.

Their kiss turned fuller. Liam's lips parted. Hudson followed, breaths and tongues mingling, tasting bourbon and salt and something sweeter that had nothing to do with alcohol. Liam's hand, still at Hudson's chin, shifted to cradle Hudson's jaw, thumb brushing lightly at the corner of his mouth as if he couldn't help himself.

Hudson melted into it, body flooding with warmth. The whole restaurant disappeared. There was only the press of Liam's mouth, the steady pull of Liam's attention, the way Liam kissed as if he'd been starving and hadn't realized it until now.

Liam's other hand began to move, slowly at first, then with growing certainty, gliding from Hudson's shoulder down the line of his arm, then back up again. His fingers traveled over Hudson's side, the gentle drag of touch over fabric, then higher, nearer Hudson's ribs, the touch turning more possessive without ever becoming rough.

Hudson shivered.

He broke the kiss for half a breath, just long enough to inhale, and Liam followed immediately, pressing in again. Their lips met once more, deeper now, bodies inching closer on the floor, Liam's chest brushing Hudson's, Hudson's knee sliding between Liam's legs in a natural, unplanned way.

That's when Hudson first felt Liam's cock. A brush of hard skin against his leg. A split second of it.

And then, a phone rang.

Sharp and sudden.

Mother fucker, you gotta be kidding me, Hudson thought.

Liam jerked as if the ringtone had physically struck him.

For a second, he stayed hovering close to Hudson, mouth still warm, breath still tangled, eyes still half-soft, then the sound hit again, insistently bright, and reality rushed in like cold air through an open door.

Liam pulled away.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, annoyed.

He fell back onto the floor, one arm flung over his face. The movement made Hudson's chest ache in a strange way, like watching someone wake up in the middle of a dream they didn't want to leave.

Liam stared at the ceiling, exhaled once, then muttered, "Here we go."

He reached for the phone with the resignation of a man who already knew the shape of the storm. The screen lit his face in a pale blue glow. Hudson caught the name flashing across it, something that looked like a first name in all caps, the kind of contact you didn't ignore.

Liam answered. He didn't even get to say hello when a woman's voice exploded out of the speaker.

"LIAM, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

Hudson startled, sitting up fast. His head throbbed from the whiplash of kissing to catastrophe.

Liam held the phone away from his ear for a moment, blinking like he'd been slapped awake. "I'm fine," he said, calm but tight.

"'FINE'?" the voice shrieked. "Do you have any idea what kind of night we've had? Do you have any idea what we've been doing for the last six hours?"

Hudson watched Liam's face change as he listened. The softness that had lived in him minutes ago, open, boyish, unguarded, slid away, replaced by a familiar armor. His jaw set. His eyes sharpened. The actor returned, but not the glamorous one. The tired one. The one who knew how to survive being pulled apart by other people's panic.

"Okay," Liam said, cutting through. "Breathe. Tell me what happened."

The woman didn't breathe.

She went on like she was throwing knives.

"We had three separate paparazzi crews tracking you, three! And then you disappear, you stop answering, your location goes dark, your social media goes quiet. Liam, people were posting that you'd been kidnapped."

Liam pinched the bridge of his nose. "No one kidnapped me."

"THAT'S NOT THE FUCKING POINT," she screamed. "It's trending. We have a statement drafted. We have your publicist, yes, plural, your assistant, your security, your manager, everyone is losing their shit. Your mom called me. Your agent called me. Someone from the studio called me at four in the morning."

Hudson's mouth went dry. He pushed himself fully upright, sitting on the floor, shoulders tense. It felt like listening to a hurricane through a wall.

Liam kept his tone controlled. "I needed a night off."

"A night off?" the woman echoed, hysterical. "What the fuck is that? Do you understand the liability? The optics? The contracts?"

Hudson glanced toward the front windows. Something tugged at his awareness, the same instinct that had watched the flashes earlier, the same sense of being hunted. He crawled to his knees and crept closer to the front, careful, moving as quietly as possible. The blinds were half-drawn. And then he saw it. Movement.

A shape shifting on the other side of the blinds. A shadow pausing, then drifting. Another one. A glint of something that could have been a camera lens. The wolves were back. Hudson turned his head slightly and looked at Liam.

Liam was still on the floor, phone to his ear, eyes narrowed now. "Listen to me," Liam said into the phone, voice sharpened to a blade. "Where's security?"

"Twenty minutes away," the woman said. "We sent..."

"Too long," Liam cut in.

"Liam..."

"No," he said, firm. "Too long. I'm not walking out the front."

Hudson crept back from the blinds and crouched near Liam, keeping his voice low. "They're outside again."

Liam's eyes flicked to Hudson, grateful, then back to the phone. "How many?"

Hudson swallowed. "At least two. Maybe more."

Liam closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight. He spoke into the phone with controlled urgency. "I need you to stop screaming and start solving," Liam said. "Is my driver nearby?"

A pause. Muffled voices on the other end, someone yelling in the background, papers shuffling, that frantic corporate sound of people trying to patch a leak in a ship.

"Yes," the woman snapped. "He's been circling. We told him to stay close."

Hudson leaned in, his mind suddenly clear despite the alcohol. A waiter's brain. A survival brain. The kind that knew back exits, blind spots, and how to move in a room without being seen.

"Tell him," Hudson whispered, "to park near the staff exit in the back. The alley. He can pull up close."

Liam looked at Hudson for half a second, eyes focused, surprised by Hudson's competence, by the simple practicality of it. Then Liam's mouth curved into a small, almost affectionate smile, brief, private, like even in the chaos, Hudson had handed him something solid to stand on.

"Good," Liam murmured, then spoke into the phone, his voice crisp. "Okay. Tell my driver to come around to the staff exit. The back. Alley side. He parks close to the door...close."

The woman's voice snapped into professional mode, still panicked but now funnelled into action. "Okay...okay...yes..."

"And," Liam continued, "I need someone to meet him at the door with a jacket. A hat. Anything. No front entrance."

Hudson nodded, already half-standing, scanning the room like it had become a map. "The back hallway leads straight to the kitchen. Staff door is through the pantry."

Liam's eyes returned to Hudson again, and this time the smile stayed a fraction longer. "See?" Liam said into the phone, with an edge of dark humor. "Someone here knows how to handle a situation. Take notes."

Hudson gave him a look like now is not the time to flirt, and Liam's eyes warmed anyway, as if he couldn't help it. On the phone, the woman barked orders at someone else. Hudson now heard a chorus of voices, overlapping.

"Where is he?"

"Get the driver on the line."

"Call the studio back, tell them..."

"Do not let him go out the front..."

Liam shut his eyes, breathed through his nose, then spoke into the phone like a man steering a ship through rocks.

"I'm going out," he said. "Don't talk over each other, it's fucking annoying. Get the driver in position. I'll be out the back in five."

Hudson rose to his feet, suddenly sober. He extended a hand down to Liam without thinking. Liam looked up at it. For a second, the entire night flickered between them: the fries, the cards, the bourbon, the dance, the floor, the laugh, the kiss interrupted. The small pocket of peace being punctured.

Then Liam took Hudson's hand, letting him pull him up.

They moved fast, Hudson leading, Liam following, the phone pressed to Liam's ear like a tether to the world that had finally found him. Hudson pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, past the steel counters and silent heat lamps, toward the staff exit that opened onto the alley.

"Hudson."

Liam's voice stopped him cold. Hudson turned. Liam had paused near the pantry door. He held out his phone.

"Give me your number," Liam said.

Hudson blinked. "Now?"

"Yes. Now."

Hudson swallowed. "Are you sure?"

Liam didn't soften his tone. He didn't explain. He didn't try to make it casual. Hudson's pulse jumped. He took the phone. His fingers trembled just enough to annoy him as he opened the keypad and punched in his digits. He handed it back.

For a second, neither of them moved. Liam's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Then he leaned forward. Hudson braced for lips. Instead, Liam pressed a kiss to the tip of Hudson's nose, absurdly tender, so small it almost hurt. Hudson went still, stunned by the sweetness of it. Liam's lips barely lingered. He pulled back, eyes bright.

"Thank you," Liam whispered.

And before Hudson could say anything, before he could ruin it with a joke, before he could beg for a promise, Liam winked. Then he turned, pushed the staff door open, and slipped out into a flash of daylight like a man vanishing into his own myth.

The door swung shut behind him.

Hudson stood there, hand still half-raised, as if he could catch the last of Liam's warmth in the air.

Shock arrived first. Then, almost immediately, nostalgia, premature and ridiculous, like his body had already filed the night away as something that had happened a long time ago.

He exhaled and made himself move.

He went to the front with a mop because that was what he did when the world didn't make sense: he cleaned. He lifted the blinds one by one, letting the pale morning in.

The first blind snapped up.

A storm of flashes assaulted the glass, white bursts, hungry clicks, movement like predators changing position. Hudson flinched, then steadied. He lowered the blind halfway again, muttering under his breath, and went back to the tables.

Then he saw it.

Liam's hoodie still lay on the cage booth, casually abandoned like a forgotten piece of armor.

Hudson stared at it for a beat that was way too long for his comfort. He walked over, picked it up, and rolled it tight. He didn't think about whether he was allowed to. He didn't think about whether it was insane. He just moved, back to the kitchen, through the hallway, into the staff area where his bag waited.

Before he shoved it inside, he lifted the hoodie to his face.

He inhaled.

It smelled like Liam, clean and expensive and human beneath it, a hint of something warm that wasn't cologne so much as presence. Hudson closed his eyes for half a second, letting the scent punch a hole straight through his ribs. Then he forced himself to tuck it into his backpack like contraband and zipped it shut.

He grabbed his own phone and slid it into his pocket.

Then, he returned to the front and unlocked the door.

The moment it opened, two paparazzi pushed in, eyes manic, mouths already forming questions.

"Where is he?" one demanded.

Hudson put on his best deadpan waiter face. "Who?"

The other one barked, "Don't play dumb...Liam Hart."

Hudson sighed like they were asking for extra ranch. "You just missed him."

Their eyes widened, foaming with renewed hunger. "Which way did he go?"

Hudson nodded toward the street with lazy confidence. "He took the secret tunnel."

They both stared.

Hudson added, solemnly, "Behind the soda machine."

The first paparazzo scowled. "Is this a joke?"

Hudson shrugged. "You guys need better sources."

They glared, disappointed in the way only disappointed predators could be, then turned and left in a huff, already dialing someone else, chasing the next crumb of rumor. Hudson watched them go, heart still hammering.

The door clicked shut.

Silence returned.

And then, his phone buzzed.

Hudson froze.

He pulled it out.

Unknown number.

A single text.

I lied.

Hudson's throat tightened. His fingers hovered for a second, then he typed.

What do you mean?

He stared at the screen.

The three dots appeared.

Gone.

Appeared again.

Hudson held his breath as if the act of breathing might scare the answer away.

Finally, the text arrived.

I would have fucked you.

Hudson's mouth stretched into a smile so slow it startled him, like his face had to relearn joy.

Then another message followed, quick and mercilessly honest.

I wanted to.

Hudson stared at the words until they blurred slightly, his pulse loud in his ears, the restaurant suddenly too bright, too quiet, too ordinary for what his body was doing.

The three dots appeared again.

Hudson didn't move.

He just watched, waiting.

And then, just like that, Liam started typing again.

(To be continued...)

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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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To get in touch with the author, send them an email.

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