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The December air in Vancouver had that kind of cold that cut through the skin, but Hudson Williams barely felt it. He was vibrating on a different frequency, a chaotic mix of anxiety, adrenaline, and that stupid euphoria that only appeared when Connor Storrie was around.
They had just picked Connor up from the airport. As soon as he saw him walking through the arrival gate, dragging a black suitcase and looking a bit lost inside a beige wool coat that made him look even more "huggable," Hudson’s heart did a triple backflip—something undignified for a man of his age and with his reputation as a bon vivant.
— Look what the wind blew in! — Hudson shouted, opening his arms in the middle of the lobby, attracting stares. He didn't care. He was Hudson Williams; shame had been surgically removed from his DNA at birth.
Connor smiled, that shy, contained smile that made his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. His cheeks flushed instantly, not from the cold, but from the attention.
— Hi, Huddie — Connor’s voice came out soft, almost muffled by the airport noise.
Hudson didn't wait. He wrapped Connor in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground for two seconds. Connor’s scent—a mixture of neutral soap, mint, and something indefinable that Hudson cataloged in his mind as peace—invaded his nostrils. For a moment, Hudson squeezed a little tighter, burying his face in the curve of the other man’s neck, where the skin was warm.
— Thought you were going to bail and leave me alone with these losers — Hudson joked as he let go, gesturing to the group of friends waiting just behind them, laughing.
— I promised, didn't I? — Connor adjusted his coat collar, still smiling, his eyes fixed on Hudson as if he were the only anchor in the world.
The Vancouver night was alive. City lights reflected on the wet asphalt, creating a film noir setting, but the group's energy was pure rom-com. They walked down Granville Street, a cluster of laughter, clouds of condensed breath, and friendly shoving.
Hudson and Connor orbited each other. It was a dance they had perfected during filming, but in real life, it carried a different weight. Hudson, true to his nature, was the center of attention. He talked loudly, told dirty jokes that made Connor cover his face with his hands (even though he was laughing), and flirted with the barista, the Uber driver, and his own reflection in the shop windows.
But his compass always pointed north: Connor.
They stopped at an entertainment complex, a mix of a bar and a retro arcade. The place smelled of popcorn, beer, and ozone.
— Oh, no. Don't even start — said one of the friends, Mark, rolling his eyes when Hudson stopped in front of that classic punching machine, the Boxer Machine.
— What's wrong? Scared of being humiliated by the champ? — Hudson grinned, that crooked, cocky smile he knew worked. He took off his leather jacket, revealing the tight black t-shirt that outlined his worked-out arms and part of the tattoos climbing up his neck.
He turned to Connor, who was standing a step back, holding his own drink with both hands, watching Hudson with silent, devoted admiration.
— Hold this for me, babe? — Hudson held out his phone and wallet.
It wasn't a request; it was a habit. Connor took the items immediately, holding them against his chest as if they were sacred relics. Hudson winked at him, an exaggerated, theatrical gesture.
— Watch and learn, Storrie. Maybe one day you can play a tough guy like me.
Connor laughed, shaking his head.
— Just go, Hudson.
Hudson got into position. He loved this. He loved the stage. But more than that, he felt Connor’s eyes on him. He could feel the gaze tracing his back, his shoulders. Hudson took a deep breath, channeled all his performative "alpha male" energy, and delivered a violent punch to the leather bag.
The machine beeped madly. High Score.
Hudson spun on his heels, arms raised in triumph, yelling as if he’d won the heavyweight belt. He ran straight to Connor, ignoring the "wows" from his friends, and draped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.
— See that? Brute force and pure technique — Hudson bragged, his face dangerously close to Connor’s.
Connor, pressed against Hudson’s side, seemed tiny in comparison, but fit perfectly. He looked up, biting his lower lip to suppress a silly smile.
— Impressive, Huddie. Very manly.
— I am the peak of masculinity, Connor. You’re lucky to be seen with me.
Hudson took his phone back, his fingers lingering on Connor’s. Connor’s skin was cold; Hudson’s was boiling. The touch lasted three seconds longer than necessary. An invisible but palpable electric current ran between them. Hudson swallowed hard, disguising the urge to interlace their fingers with a loud laugh, ruffling Connor’s perfectly styled hair.
Later, while the group split up to get more drinks and food, Hudson leaned against the railing of an outdoor balcony, watching the city. Connor had gone to the bathroom.
— Man, this is getting ridiculous — Sarah, one of Hudson's closest friends, said, stopping beside him with a cup of beer.
— What? My score? I know, I’m amazing — Hudson replied, not taking his eyes off the door where Connor would return.
— No. You and Connor — she took a sip, looking at him seriously. — The way you look at him. The way he looks at you. It looks like you’re in a French movie where no one says anything, but everyone knows they’re going to bang or get married at any moment. Hudson laughed, but the sound came out nervous. He swirled his whiskey.
— That’s bullshit. We’re bros. Best friends. Scene partners. We have matching tattoos, Sarah. It’s a brother thing.
— Brothers don't look at each other's mouths when the other is talking — she retorted. — And brothers don't hand their phone to the other to hold as if they were handing over their heart on a platter. Hudson, he’s crazy about you.
Hudson sighed, the facade of the "confident guy" cracking for an instant. He looked down at his shoes.
— It’s not like that. Connor... he’s sensitive. He’s affectionate with everyone. He’s Ilya on screen, but in real life? He’s a teddy bear. He’s just being nice. If I tried something... if I ruined this... I wouldn't forgive myself. He doesn't see me that way. He sees me as the loud friend who protects him.
— You’re blind — Sarah huffed. — He looks at you like you invented oxygen.
At that moment, Connor reappeared. His eyes swept the place until they found Hudson, and his face lit up instantly. It wasn't a social smile; it was a visible relaxation of his shoulders, as if the world only made sense when Hudson was in his field of vision.
— Speak of the angel — Hudson murmured, straightening his posture and putting the mask of confidence back on. — Hey, Con! Saved a VIP spot right here next to me.
Connor walked over to them, ignoring the empty space on the other side and fitting himself exactly into the small space between Hudson and the railing. Hudson’s arm, almost by instinct, went around Connor’s waist, pulling him in to escape the wind. Connor sighed and rested his head on Hudson’s shoulder. It was domestic. It was intimate. It was terrifying.
The countdown was approaching. They had left the bar and were now at a high point in the city, a park where the view of the fireworks would be perfect. The group was euphoric, champagne bottles popping, the sound of horns and shouting echoing in the distance.
Hudson felt his stomach churn. It wasn't the alcohol. It was the constant presence of Connor by his side. Over the last few hours, the tension had escalated to something unbearable. Every time Connor laughed at one of Hudson’s bad jokes, every time they shared a piece of food, every time their knees touched when they sat down... Hudson felt like he was about to explode.
He looked at Connor. The city lights illuminated his profile. He looked ethereal. Connor was quiet, hands in his pockets, looking at the giant digital clock on a distant building.
10... the crowd began to scream.
Hudson turned completely toward Connor.
— Hey — Hudson called.
Connor turned. His eyes were bright, reflecting the lights.
— Hi.
9... 8...
— Thanks for coming. Seriously. It wouldn't be the same without you — Hudson said, his voice cracking slightly, losing his usual bravado.
Connor smiled, a soft smile full of tenderness. He took a hand out of his pocket and, in a brave gesture for him, lightly touched Hudson’s forearm.
— I wouldn't be anywhere else, Huddie.
7... 6... 5...
The proximity was suffocating. Hudson could see Connor’s eyelashes, the small mole near his ear, the texture of his lips slightly dry from the cold. Hudson’s heart was beating in his throat. The "friendzone" looked like an abyss he was about to jump into without a parachute.
4... 3...
Hudson acted on instinct. The emotion was too big, the affection too vast to fit into just a high-five. He pulled Connor into a tight hug. Bodies pressed together, heat against heat in the middle of the Canadian winter.
2... 1... HAPPY NEW YEAR!
The sky exploded in colors. Red, gold, silver. The sound was deafening.
Still in the embrace, Hudson pulled back just enough to look into Connor’s face. Connor’s eyes were fixed on his, not the sky. There was a question there. An expectation. And something else... a silent permission.
Hudson’s brain shut down. The part of him that was unfiltered, impulsive, and starving took control. He cupped Connor’s face with both hands, feeling the soft skin under his thumbs, and kissed him. It wasn't a movie kiss. It was a shock. It was the desperate meeting of two mouths that seemed to have been gravitating toward each other for months. Hudson poured everything into it: the fear, the adoration, the need to protect, the desire. But reality hit him a second later. What did I do? Hudson broke the kiss abruptly, pulling back as if he’d been electrocuted. Panic flooded his system. He looked at Connor, eyes wide, breathing irregular.
— Connor, I... shit, I... — Hudson stammered, something he never did. His eyes, traitorous, began to burn. His vision blurred. He, the confident Hudson Williams, was about to cry out of terror for having ruined the best friendship of his life. — I'm sorry, I got carried away, I shouldn't have...
Connor stood there, motionless. His expression was undecipherable under the flashing lights of the fireworks.
Hudson took another step back, feeling his chest ache.
— Forget it, please. I drank too much, I’m an idiot...
Before Hudson could run away or continue self-deprecating, Connor moved. Not with shyness, but with a determination Hudson rarely saw off-screen. Connor stepped forward, grabbed the lapel of Hudson’s leather jacket tightly, and pulled him back.
This time, it was Connor who initiated.
He kissed Hudson. And it wasn't a shy peck. It was a deep, hot kiss, full of relief and silent possession. Connor’s hands moved up to the back of Hudson’s neck, fingers tangling in his short hair, holding him there, as if to say: You’re not going anywhere.
Hudson let out a strangled sound, his arms wrapping around Connor’s waist automatically, pulling him so close that not even air could pass between them. The fear evaporated, replaced by an overwhelming joy.
When they separated, both were panting. Foreheads touching. The fireworks were still bursting above them, but they seemed irrelevant.
Hudson opened his eyes, still wet, expecting to see doubt. But what he saw was the most radiant smile Connor had ever given. A smile that reached his eyes and overflowed.
Connor ran his thumb gently over Hudson’s cheek, wiping away a solitary tear that had escaped.
— Finally, Huddie — Connor sussurrou, a voz rouca e divertida. — I thought I was going to have to wait until next year.
Hudson let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob of relief. The arrogance returned with a snap of his fingers, but now mixed with pure happiness.
— I was just... building suspense — Hudson lied, flashing that cocky grin, although his hands were still trembling slightly on Connor’s back. — It’s good for the ratings.
Connor rolled his eyes, pulling Hudson’s face in for another kiss.
— Shut up and kiss me again, you cocky idiot.
And there, under the illuminated Vancouver sky, Hudson Williams obeyed with all the pleasure in the world.