Christina’s POV
My shoulder felt damp. I glanced down. His face was a mask of indifference, but the wet patch on my sweatshirt betrayed him. He’d allowed himself a few minutes to lower his shields, to fall apart in my arms.
Now, the walls were back up. Locked tight without warning.
"My mother was on dication—antipsychotics, I think. She was obsessed with Reginald, couldn’t bear hearing anything negative about him. Even when he stopped calling, even after his engagent, she kept waiting. When she finally realized he was never coming back, she just... snapped. Maybe it started as love, but by the end, it was pure fury. She couldn’t direct that rage at him, so she turned it on ."
He rubbed his knuckles, his left hand digging into his thigh.
"I thought she blad . I thought she abandoned because she couldn’t stand the sight of anymore. But months later, I overheard Reginald and Gwendolyn fighting. He was shouting, saying she’d gone to see my mother, just hours before she—"
He cut himself off.
I already knew.
"Gwendolyn said sothing to her," I whispered.
He nodded. "I don’t know what. But it wasn’t friendly."
My fingers curled into fists. This wasn’t just petty cruelty. Gwendolyn had thodically tried to destroy him from the beginning. She continued playing her part in public, the doting stepmother, making sure everyone thought she was the hero.
And I had fallen for it.
Just as I was seething at my own naivety, Hudson added, "She always looks perfect on the surface, acting like she’s proud, but she hates . The mont you texted, I knew she was setting you up. She wanted to draw blood without getting her hands dirty."
Silence stretched between us. I rubbed my thumb across my inner wrist, clearing the lump in my throat.
"Now that I know, you don’t need to worry. I’m on your side. Always. I won’t be blind to her tricks again. Whatever gas she plays won’t shake us. And your mom... she never thought you were a burden. She probably just wanted you safe."
He made a soft, choked sound and reached for my hand, interlocking his fingers tightly with mine.
Then he nodded toward the floor. "What’s that?"
I followed his gaze. My backpack was leaning against my boot.
"It was supposed to be a gift," I mumbled. I’d grabbed it instinctively when he’d dragged out earlier.
He looked genuinely curious. "What’s inside?"
I hesitated. He hated birthdays. My stomach twisted at the thought of him opening anything celebration-related. Even ntioning it felt cruel.
But he kept waiting.
So I leaned down, retrieved the box, and handed it over.
"It’s not a birthday gift. Consider it a Winter Solstice present."
He stared at steadily.
I felt heat radiating from the seat, from the charged air between us, from his hand still resting on mine. The coldness that had wrapped around him earlier had vanished.
He opened the lid and stared at the watch inside.
"That’s perfect," Hudson said.
His words instantly eased the tightness in my chest.
Then he extended his wrist toward . "Would you help put it on?"
"Of course."
He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the dashboard.
I held the new watch band, carefully securing it around his wrist and adjusting the clasp until it fit snugly.
The matte black band stood out against his pale skin.
My hands lingered on him a second longer than necessary.
He rotated his wrist, watching the second hand tick forward in a steady rhythm.
"I like it," he said softly.
"Good."
My stomach growled loudly enough to interrupt both of us.
I turned away, my face heating up. "I’m a little hungry. Let’s grab sothing to eat. I know a seafood place you’ll love."
He nodded. "Lead the way."
We left the Sabreridge pack house, our tires crunching on the gravel before hitting the main road.
I insisted on driving. I claid it was because he didn’t know the way, but mostly, I didn’t want him behind the wheel while he was still so wired.
Twenty minutes ago, he’d flipped a table. That kind of rage doesn’t just disappear after a simple drive and a gift.
He needed ti to cool down.
The city grew closer, streetlights flickering across the dashboard.
My chosen spot wasn’t far.
I parked outside a row of old buildings with rusted shutters and faded signs.
"It’s down that alley," I said, pointing toward a gap between two crumbling walls. "Looks sketchy, I know, but the food is worth it."
Hudson peered down the narrow passage. The car definitely wouldn’t fit.
"It used to be wider," I quickly explained. "But the hospital is building a new wing, so half the road’s blocked off. We’ll have to walk the rest."
He stared at the barricade.
I scratched the back of my neck nervously.
"We can go sowhere else if you want. Sowhere nicer."
"No need," he said, already opening his door. "If you say it’s good, I believe you."
We ventured deeper.
A neon sign buzzed above the narrow doorway—a strange mix of hot pot, ceviche, and oyster bar all cramd together.
Inside, steam rolled out from the kitchen, fogging up the windows. People were hunched over their tables, digging into their als.
My place had six tables. All full, except for a small booth in the corner.
I turned to see Hudson lingering in the doorway, scanning everything—the peeling paint, the worn floor, the ceiling.
"Don’t worry about how it looks," I said quickly. "The kitchen is actually really clean, I swear."
He stepped inside, sliding into the booth. "It’s fine. It’s... cozy."
"Two seafood platters, please!" I called out toward the kitchen.
"You got it!" the owner shouted back. He poked his head out, grinning when he saw . "Long ti no see, Christina."
Hudson looked around again. The walls were covered in cheap, green wood paneling.
Fishing nets were tacked up as decoration, along with a dusty life preserver hanging above the soda fridge.
A row of plastic crabs marched across the ceiling.
I leaned forward. "It’s a total hole-in-the-wall, but trust , you’d regret missing this."
He raised an eyebrow. "You co here often?"
"Not really. Just when I need so comfort food. I used to co a lot before I got engaged to Niall."
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