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It was a windy day in California, but if you asked him point blank what the weather was like, he'd probably still be on default settings, saying that it was cold and shit.
Not the case, but that’s far from his thoughts right now.
Hudson simply just stood on Connor’s doorstep, heart hammering, fist raised halfway to knock.
What the hell am I doing?
Three seasons of playing Shane Hollander to Connor’s Ilya Rozanov on Heated Rivalry had blurred too many lines - between friendship and something else, between acting and feeling - that he was struggling to make sense in his head. They’d spent weeks, months, hell 2 years convincing audiences they were in love, all while pretending they weren’t dangerously close to believing it themselves.
Now, three months post-wrap, three months since he hugged Connor after that last magazine interview and he had sounded so small (“So this is it?” “Seems so.”), the distance between them was unbearable.
It wasn’t like they didn’t talk; he could put the fucking fight he just took to get here to shame with their text history, but it was just…lonely. Like he was waiting for something every time he found himself still.
Or someone.
God, this was stupid, so stupid. He needed to go home.
Hudson lowered his hand, exhaling sharply. Idiot. He turned on his heel, strides quick as he made for the rental car parked at the curb.
Before he could even find the keys, the door swung open behind him.
“You’re really gonna fly all the way from the great North just to chick out on my porch?”
Connor’s voice was warm, teasing, still containing the light amount of twang his upbringing in Texas had left him with and that the city of lights couldn’t take out of him, arching its way across Hudson’s shoulder blades the same way it had been on set when Hudson forgot a line or tripped over his skates or made a joke in bed.
Russian or not Russian, it was like a kill switch. Hudson froze, shoulders tense, before turning back.
Connor stood there in loose sweats, hair sleep-mussed, eyes bright. He looked softer off-camera, less like Ilya and more like just Connor - the guy who laughed at dumb memes and Hudson’s straight refusal to keep up with his media training, who sent Hudson random voice notes at 2 AM, who had somehow become the person Hudson missed most when they weren’t together.
“I wasn’t chickening out.” Hudson lied. “Just…forgot something.”
Connor raised an eyebrow. “Sure.” He stepped aside, nodding toward the house. “You came all this way. Might as well come in, Huddy.”
Hudson hesitated. This was reckless. Stupid. They'd spent three years pretending to be in love, and now he was here, standing in the golden light of Connor’s doorway, unsure what to do with the real thing.
“I don’t know why I’m here.” He admitted.
Connor’s smirk softened. “I think you do.”
Then, because Connor Storrie had never been afraid of taking the shot (maybe he was more like Ilya then either of them liked to admit), he reached out, fingers brushing Hudson’s wrist.
That small touch - real, not scripted and looked over by a thousand - sent a shiver up Hudson’s spine.
“Stay.” Connor said, simple as that.
Hudson exhaled, tension unraveling. “Yeah.” He murmured. “Okay.”
Seems that was the right answer, as when Connor grinned, bright and warm, Hudson knew that this wasn’t acting anymore.
They were finally, for once, off script.