Hudson slams his beer down on the dresser so hard it spins and rattles until it settles on the wood.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks. “Why can’t you just leave it alone?”
“It matters to me,” I say, holding his gaze. His face contorts into an expression of pain that makes my heart ache. “You’re my best friend—”
“No, it doesn’t!” he yells, cutting me off.
I stand still as his eyes fill with tears.
“Hudson—”
“It doesn’t fucking matter!” he yells again, shoving me. He’s breathing heavily, and I just stand there, letting him feel his anger. “I’m still the same person!” he says, staring at the floor. “I’m—”
I take two small steps toward him, and reach out to settle a hand on his hip.
“Look at me,” I tell him.
I half expect him to push me away, but he doesn’t. His body shakes under my touch, and I squeeze his hip.
He doesn’t look at me.
“It doesn’t change anything,” he says, the pain evident in his voice. “I’m still me. I’m still the same person.”
I turn his face toward me.
His amber eyes find me with a look of guilt and remorse. I hate it. I hate seeing him like this.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, tears trailing down his cheeks.
“Like what?” I ask, my voice soft. Steady.
“Like you don’t know how to act around me. Like you feel sorry for me.”
“No…” I slide my hand around his neck. My fingers find the edges of his hair, and I look into his warm brown eyes. His golden-brown hair, which is slightly mussed from his run in here. At his perfectly-shaped mouth and the way it’s parted just slightly as he sucks in deep breaths.
I don’t see it.
I don’t see what he thinks I see.
All I see is Hudson, my best friend, who I can laugh with. The man I can’t stop thinking about when he’s not around. The person whose voice I look forward to hearing every day. The person I want to kiss right now—right this very second.
Hudson closes his eyes, turning from me, and I don’t think twice about turning his face toward mine and crushing my lips against his.
Hudson startles, pressing his palms on my chest, but he doesn’t push me. His fingers grasp onto my shirt until they become fists, and his tension can be felt like it’s an extension of myself.
I kiss him softly, needing him to understand what I can’t seem to find the words to say.
When Hudson breaks away, the words fall out of my mouth without warning.
“I think I like you,” I say.
Hudson laughs, but it’s strained, sarcastic, and somewhat sad.
“You think,” he says. “You don’tknowif you like me anymore?” The anger and disappointment in his voice is irrefutable. “Don’t know if you want to befriendswith me anymore?”
That’s not what I meant.Fuck. That came out wrong.
“No, that’s—” I close my eyes, trying to find the words, but my brain is scrambled and nothing is making sense. I know he’s referencing our conversation from New York, but I don’t think he understands. How do I make him understand? How do I explain what I barely understand myself? A lump forms in my throat as his eyes stare up at me like he’s worried I’m going to tell him I hate him or that we can’t be friends anymore.
