Hudson Williams x F!Reader x Connor Storrie
n/a: english is not my first language TT.
Summary: You work as a makeup assistant on set, where you meet Connor and Hudson. After the project ends, both ask to keep working together, but their professional interactions slowly turn personal and romantic.
Warnings: polyamoryous relationship!, just fluff. Mild romantic tension.
Hudson and Connor likes reader, reader date both men without them knowing. lots of soft affection, cuddling, gentle touches. Fluff, pet names, and quiet, intimate moments.
You didn’t know how everything started.
At first, it was just simple work—helping the makeup artist get the boys ready before every scene. Working specifically with them was fun: long hours, late nights, small breaks where you’d eat together between takes. By the time the show ended, it almost made you think they were a thing.
You were ready to leave after that, already thinking about finding another job, when you heard it.
“Can we keep working together?”
And then, on a different day, from Hudson.
Same question.
Different moments.
But your answer was always the same.
“Let’s work together, then.”
And that was your answer.
You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.
People asked to keep working together all the time. Especially after a successful project. Especially when everyone was exhausted, bonded by stress and deadlines and inside jokes no one else understood.
Still, the way Connor asked stayed with you.
It was late. The set had already begun to empty out, lights dimmed, cables being coiled with practiced efficiency. You were packing up your kit when he appeared beside you, leaning against the counter like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands.
“You heading out?” he asked.
“Yeah. Last day,” you said, trying to keep it casual.
He nodded, chewing on his lip. You noticed it then—how nervous he looked when he wasn’t performing. How different he was when there were no cameras, no audience.
“So,” he said, drawing the word out. “I’ve got a couple interviews coming up. Press stuff. And I was wondering if—” He stopped, laughed at himself. “Sorry. This sounded way smoother in my head.”
You smiled despite yourself. “You can just ask.”
He met your eyes. “Can we keep working together?”
Something in your chest shifted. Not dramatically. Not enough to scare you. Just enough to notice.
“Yeah,” you said after a beat. “We can.”
His smile came fast and bright, relief written all over his face. “Great. Cool. Awesome.”
You watched him walk away thinking it was just that—work. Convenience. Familiarity.
Hudson asked differently.
You were leaving a fitting when he caught up with you in the hallway, steps matching yours without crowding your space.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Can I ask you something?”
He hesitated. That, too, stuck with you.
“I know you’re probably moving on to something else,” he said, eyes focused ahead, not on you. “But I work better when I’m comfortable. When I trust the people around me.”
“I was hoping,” he continued, voice low, “that we could keep working together. If you’re open to it.”
You didn’t answer right away.
Not because you didn’t want to—but because the sincerity in his voice caught you off guard.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’d like that.”
He smiled then. Small. Warm. Like he’d been holding his breath.
And just like that, your plans shifted.
Working with them outside the show felt different.
There were no mirrors or makeup lights anymore—just hotel rooms turned into makeshift prep spaces, cramped dressing rooms at studios you’d never heard of, early mornings fueled by bad coffee and mutual exhaustion.
You learned their rhythms quickly.
Connor was energy. He filled spaces without trying, talked with his hands, paced when he was nervous. He liked music loud while he got ready, liked to tease you about your focus face when you were working.
“You’re very serious for someone holding a powder brush,” he’d say, grinning.
Hudson was steadier. Quieter. He watched more than he spoke. He trusted you completely—tilting his head when you needed, holding still without being asked. Sometimes he’d thank you afterward, voice soft like it was just for you.
You told yourself that was normal too.
Interviews blurred together at first.
Bright lights. Smiling hosts. Questions that sounded different but meant the same thing.
You stayed just off-camera, clipboard tucked against your chest, eyes always on them. Timing cues. Water bottles. Gentle reminders whispered during commercial breaks.
Officially, you were there to help.
Unofficially, you were there for them.
Connor thrived in front of cameras. He leaned forward, laughed easily, charmed everyone in the room. Every once in a while, his eyes would flick to you—quick, almost unconscious.
At first, no one noticed.
Until he made them noticeable.
“So,” an interviewer said one afternoon, leaning back in his chair with a knowing smile, “you two spend a lot of time together. Any secrets we should know about?”
Connor laughed, smooth as ever. “Depends,” he said, glancing toward you. “Some things are better kept private.”
You felt it immediately—the shift in the room. The way the host’s eyebrows lifted. The way the camera lingered half a second longer than necessary.
Later, during a break, Connor leaned down toward you, voice low.
The word slipped out easily. Naturally.
You swallowed. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He smiled like he didn’t believe you—but let it go.
He didn’t play with the cameras the same way. He answered carefully, thoughtfully. But he stayed close to you too—close enough that people started to notice. When you adjusted his jacket before a segment, his hand closed gently around your wrist.
“You doing alright, sweetheart?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, pulling your hand back a little too quickly. “Yeah.”
The thing was—you didn’t think they noticed each other’s behavior.
Connor didn’t see the way Hudson watched you when he thought no one was paying attention. The way his gaze softened when you laughed, the way he always seemed to know when you were overwhelmed. Hudson didn’t hear the way Connor’s voice changed when he spoke to you off-mic. Lower. Warmer. Like he was letting you see something he didn’t show anyone else.
And you were stuck in the middle, pretending it was all normal. There were moments when it almost slipped.Like when Connor draped an arm around your shoulders during a group photo, pulling you in without thinking. Or when Hudson passed you a coffee before you even asked, murmuring, “The way you like it.”
Screenshots appeared online. Threads. Theories. You told yourself it was harmless. Just fandom being fandom.
Still, every time you stood between them during an interview—smiling politely while they talked over each other—your chest felt too tight.
You wondered how long it would last.
How long before someone said something. Before one of them noticed. Before you had to. You didn’t expect it to happen the same way twice.
“Let me take you out sometime.”
Connor said it first. Casual. Almost offhand. Like he was talking about grabbing coffee after work.
You laughed, surprised. “Are you serious?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. I am.”
You hesitated. Then, somehow, you said yes.
Hudson asked days later. Not casual at all. You were packing up after an interview when he lingered, hands in his pockets, expression thoughtful. “I don’t want to make this uncomfortable,” he said. “But I’d really like to take you to dinner. Just us.”
Your heart stuttered. You thought of Connor’s smile. His confidence. The way he’d looked at you like the answer already mattered. And still—“Okay,” you said.
Again, the same answer. That was when you knew. Something had shifted. Something you couldn’t ignore forever.
You tried to convince yourself it was coincidence. People asked people out all the time. Especially in this industry, where connections blurred easily and everything felt temporary. Especially when long days and shared routines made familiarity feel deeper than it really was.
still, you couldn’t ignore the pattern.
Connor was bold about it. He didn’t change how he acted afterward—if anything, he leaned in harder. More jokes. More lingering looks. More moments where he found excuses to be near you, like proximity alone could say what he hadn’t yet.
Hudson, on the other hand, pulled back just a little.
Not in distance—but in care. But after all he wa freakier.
He checked in more often. Asked if you were comfortable. If you needed space. If this was okay. It made your chest ache in a different way, quieter but heavier. and the strangest part was that neither of them asked about the other.
Connor never mentioned Hudson’s hand on your wrist. Hudson never brought up the way Connor said your name like it belonged to him. It was like two separate worlds running in parallel, and you were the only one standing at the intersection.
Some nights, after interviews, you lay awake replaying moments in your head.
Connor laughing too loud beside you in the car. Hudson’s shoulder brushing yours in a crowded hallway. The way both of them looked at you like you were something rare. You told yourself it would sort itself out.
That you’d figure it out when you had to.
Until then, you focused on the work.
You were good at it—better than you let yourself admit. You anticipated their needs before they voiced them. You noticed small changes in mood, adjusted without being asked. You kept everything running smoothly while the rest of the world watched them shine. Sometimes, Connor would catch you watching him during interviews.
He’d raise an eyebrow, amused.
“What?” he’d mouth silently.
You’d roll your eyes, pretend you weren’t looking.
Hudson noticed in subtler ways.
A quiet smile when your eyes met. A nod of thanks when you handed him water at the exact right moment. A soft “you good?” whispered when the room felt too loud.
One afternoon, during a longer break, the three of you ended up alone in a small green room. Connor sprawled across the couch like he owned the place. Hudson sat in a chair near the window, legs crossed, phone forgotten in his hand. You leaned against the counter, scrolling absently.
Connor broke the silence first. “You ever miss it?”
“The show,” he said. “Being done. Knowing what comes next.”
You considered it. “I miss the certainty,” you admitted. “Not knowing is… weird.”
Hudson nodded. “Yeah. But sometimes the not knowing is where things start.”
Connor glanced between the two of you, something unreadable flickering across his face. “You’re very philosophical today.”
Hudson smiled faintly. “Someone has to balance you out.”
You laughed, but your heart thudded a little too hard. Because for a split second, it felt like the three of you were already something. Like this—sharing space, conversation, silence—wasn’t accidental.
Later that night, Connor texted you.
Connor: Did I make things weird today?
You stared at the screen, surprised.
You: No. Why would you think that?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Connor: Just checking. I like where we are.
Your chest tightened. You didn’t reply right away. When you did, it was simple.
Across the city, Hudson sat on the edge of his hotel bed, phone in hand, rereading your last message from earlier that day.
Hudson: Let me know when you get home safe.
You had replied with a picture of your front door. you didn’t know he’d smiled at that.
Didn’t know he’d thought, she trusts me. Didn’t know that both of them, separately, were already thinking of you as something more than coincidence.
And you didn’t yet know how impossible it would become to keep those worlds apart.
In the way your chest tightened when their names lit up your phone.
In the way your thoughts always circled back to them.
In the quiet, growing certainty that this wasn’t just work anymore.
And that whatever came next would change everything.
You didn’t have answers yet.
Only feelings you weren’t ready to name, and a sense—quiet but insistent—that whatever was unfolding between the three of you wasn’t accidental.
It was waiting.
And sooner or later, it would demand to be seen.
You were in shock the moment you heard it—on the same day, at different moments, the same simple words.
“Let me take you out sometime.”
And somehow, you said yes.
That Friday night, you were nervous long before you even stepped outside.
Not the fluttery kind of nervous you’d felt before premieres or interviews—this was quieter, heavier. The kind that settled in your chest and refused to leave. You stood in front of the mirror longer than necessary, tugging at the hem of your top, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, changing your mind every few minutes.
It shouldn’t have mattered this much.
It was just dinner.
Just Hudson.
But your heart didn’t seem to agree.
You changed outfits twice. Maybe three times. At some point, you stopped counting. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that Hudson had already seen you exhausted, stressed, halfway through twelve-hour days on set. That this version of you—clean, put together, nervous—wasn’t something you needed to perform.
Still, when your phone buzzed with I’m outside, your palms were sweaty.
You took one last look at yourself, inhaled slowly, and stepped out.
Hudson was leaning against his car, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He straightened the moment he saw you, the streetlight casting a soft glow over his face—less polished than he looked in interviews, less guarded. More like the man you knew between takes, laughing quietly, listening more than he spoke.
For a moment, neither of you said anything.
“You look nice,” he said finally, almost shy.
It wasn’t flashy. Nothing about this was. And somehow, that made it feel more real.
He opened the car door for you, his hand lingering just long enough to make your pulse jump before he pulled back. The drive itself was quiet but full, the kind of silence that didn’t feel awkward. Music played low in the background, something mellow you didn’t recognize. Every so often, you caught him glancing at you—not staring, just checking, like he wanted to make sure you were really there.
“So,” he said after a while, voice easy. “You nervous?”
You laughed softly. “Is it that obvious?”
“A little,” he admitted, smiling. “But I kind of am too.”
That surprised you. “You are?”
“Yeah,” he said. “This feels… important.”
The word settled between you.
The restaurant he chose was small and warm, tucked away on a quiet street. Not expensive. Not trendy. Just comfortable. Wooden tables, low lighting, the hum of conversation blending with soft music. The kind of place you’d walk past a hundred times and never notice—unless someone brought you there on purpose.
You sat across from each other, menus forgotten almost immediately. Conversation flowed easily, the way it always had on set, only now there was no rush. No cameras waiting. No schedules pulling you in different directions.
You talked about Heated Rivalry—the chaos, the long nights, the moments that never made it on screen. Hudson told stories you’d forgotten, details you hadn’t noticed at the time. You laughed more than you expected to, shoulders relaxing, nerves slowly unraveling.
At one point, you laughed so hard you had to wipe tears from your eyes.
“I swear,” you said, shaking your head, “there were moments where I had no idea how we made it through some of those days.”
Hudson smiled fondly. “Yeah. But we did.”
There was something in his tone—pride, maybe. Or relief.
Dinner came and went almost unnoticed. You shared bites, commented on flavors, lingered longer than necessary. Hudson listened when you spoke, really listened, his attention never drifting. When you asked him questions, he answered honestly, without trying to impress you.
At some point, without planning to, you said it.
“At some point,” you admitted, smiling softly, “I thought you were dating Connor. The chemistry between you two was just… really good.”
Hudson blinked, clearly surprised—but not offended.
He laughed quietly, shaking his head as he reached for his glass. “Connor?” he repeated. “No. We’re not.”
“Really,” he said. “We’re close. But that’s all.”
You nodded slowly, a strange mix of relief and confusion settling in your chest.
He studied you for a moment. “Did that bother you?”
You hesitated. “I don’t know,” you said honestly. “I think I just… noticed.”
He smiled at that. “Yeah. Me too.”
After dinner, neither of you was ready to end the night. Hudson suggested a walk, and you agreed without hesitation.
The air was cool, the city quieter than usual. You walked side by side, hands brushing occasionally, each accidental touch sending a small spark through you. You talked about smaller things now—music, favorite places, childhood memories. Things you wouldn’t normally share in passing.
“I don’t do this often,” Hudson admitted at one point.
He nodded. “I’m not great at… casual.”
Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten.
“Me neither,” you said softly.
You stopped near a small park, lights strung along the pathway. Hudson turned to face you fully now, hands tucked into his pockets again, expression open but careful.
“I’m glad you said yes,” he said.
There was a pause. Not uncomfortable—just heavy. Meaningful.
He reached out slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t. His hand brushed yours, then laced your fingers together, warm and steady.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, heart pounding.
The kiss was gentle at first, unhurried. Not rushed. Not demanding. His hand rested at your waist, grounding you there. When you kissed him back, it deepened naturally, like you were both discovering the same thing at the same time.
When you pulled away, forehead resting against his, you were both breathing a little heavier.
e didn’t step back right away.
The kiss lingered between you, unfinished, like a thought neither wanted to say out loud. Hudson’s forehead stayed close to yours, his thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles where your hands were still tangled together.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, even though your heart was beating too fast. “Yeah. I just… didn’t expect this to feel like this.”
He smiled softly. “Me neither.”
Instead of letting go, he squeezed your hand gently. “Do you want to keep walking? Or… we could grab dessert somewhere.”
Dessert sounded safe. Walking sounded dangerous. You chose both.
“There’s a place a few blocks away,” you said. “They’re open late.”
The city felt different now—slower, like it was giving you space. Hudson walked close enough that your arms brushed with every step. Sometimes his hand found yours again, naturally, like it belonged there.
Inside the café, the lights were dimmer, the crowd smaller. You ordered something sweet to share, sitting across from each other but leaning in, elbows on the table, voices low.
“You always do that,” Hudson said suddenly, smiling.
“Get that look when you’re thinking,” he said. “Like you’re trying to decide whether to say something or keep it to yourself.”
You laughed softly. “Am I that obvious?”
“Only if someone’s paying attention.”
That made your stomach flip.
Conversation drifted—family, past jobs, the weird in-between moments of life when you don’t quite know where you’re headed. Hudson spoke slowly, carefully, like he chose his words with intention.
“I like knowing where I stand,” he said at one point. “Even if it’s uncomfortable.”
You studied him. “Is that why you asked me out?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
Something about the honesty in that made your throat tighten.
When you finished dessert, neither of you made a move to stand. Time stretched. Hudson reached across the table, tracing a slow line along your wrist with his finger, absentminded but intimate.
“You’re really quiet,” he murmured.
“I’m just… taking it in,” you admitted. “I don’t usually let things feel this real this fast.”
He nodded. “Me neither. But I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”
Outside again, the night air was cooler. You walked without a destination now, just letting the streets decide for you. At some point, Hudson stopped, turning to face you under another streetlight.
“There’s something I want to ask,” he said.
Your heart skipped. “Okay.”
He took a breath. “What does this feel like to you?”
You didn’t answer right away. You wanted to be honest. Not careful.
“It feels… steady,” you said finally. “Like I don’t have to guess.”
His expression softened. “That’s exactly how it feels to me.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. His hand slid to your lower back, pulling you closer, grounding you against him. You melted into it, fingers curling into his jacket.
When you broke apart, you were both smiling—quiet, unguarded smiles.
“I don’t want this night to end,” you admitted.
“Then let’s not rush it,” he said.
You ended up sitting on a low stone wall nearby, shoulders touching, talking about nothing and everything. At some point, Hudson’s arm slipped around you, your head resting against his shoulder like it had always belonged there.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
The city kept moving, but you felt suspended inside this small pocket of time.
Hudson tilted his head slightly. “Can I tell you something?”
“I’ve wanted to do this for a while,” he said softly. “I just didn’t want to push.”
Your chest tightened. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
Another kiss followed, unhurried, unplanned. When you pulled back this time, you stayed close, noses brushing, breathing the same air.
And for the first time that night, you realized—
this wasn’t just attraction.
You didn’t realize how long you’d been sitting there until your legs started to feel it.
Not uncomfortable—just aware.
Hudson shifted slightly beside you, adjusting his arm around your shoulders without letting go. The movement was careful, like he didn’t want to break whatever rhythm the two of you had settled into.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
You shook your head. “No. I’m good.”
He smiled, but still tugged you a little closer, his warmth seeping into you anyway.
You watched cars pass, headlights streaking softly through the night. Every now and then, someone laughed nearby, but it felt distant—like the rest of the world existed on a different layer.
“I don’t usually stay out this late,” you admitted quietly.
“Me neither,” he said. “At least… not like this.”
He glanced down at you. “Not distracted. Not checking the time.”
There was a pause, comfortable but heavy with unsaid things. You could feel them hovering between you—questions neither of you wanted to rush.
Hudson broke the silence first.
“Can I ask you something kind of personal?” he said.
He hesitated, eyes forward. “Do you ever feel like… people only see the version of you that’s useful?”
The question surprised you.
You thought about it before answering. “Yeah,” you said slowly. “All the time.”
He exhaled, like he’d been holding that thought in for a while. “Me too.”
You turned your head to look at him. “Is that how it feels for you? On set?”
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Everyone’s nice, but it’s always about what you can give. What you can be for them.”
His thumb brushed absently against your upper arm as he spoke, grounding himself.
“With you,” he continued, quieter now, “I don’t feel like I have to perform.”
Your chest tightened at that.
“I don’t feel like that with you either,” you said. “I feel… seen. Even when I’m not trying.”
He looked at you then—really looked. The kind of look that made your stomach flip.
“That means more than you know.”
Silence fell again, but this time it was thicker, heavier. You were suddenly very aware of how close you were, of how easy it would be to lean in again.
Instead, Hudson chuckled softly.
“If anyone from work saw us right now, they’d definitely talk.”
You laughed. “They already do.”
“Fair.” He smiled, then sobered slightly. “Does that bother you?”
You considered it. “Not tonight.”
His smile returned, slow and genuine.
You stayed there longer than you meant to. At some point, your phone buzzed in your pocket, breaking the moment. You didn’t check it.
Hudson noticed. “You don’t have to ignore it.”
“I want to,” you said simply.
That earned you another one of those looks—soft, almost grateful.
Eventually, he stood, offering you his hand. “Come on. Let’s keep moving.”
You took it without hesitation.
You walked aimlessly, letting the streets guide you. Hudson pointed out random things—places he liked, spots he’d discovered by accident, memories tied to corners you would’ve otherwise passed without noticing.
“This bakery,” he said, slowing down, “has the best pastries in the morning. I come here when I can’t sleep.”
“Not well,” he admitted. “Too much thinking.”
At some point, you found yourselves by a quieter street, the noise of the city fading. Hudson stopped again, this time turning fully toward you.
“You’re doing it again,” he said.
You sighed softly. “I’m just… trying to be present.”
“You are,” he assured you. “You don’t have to overthink this.”
“I know,” you said. “I just don’t want to mess it up.”
His expression softened. “You won’t.”
“Because we’re both trying,” he said simply. “That’s usually enough.”
The kiss this time was different.
Slower. Deeper. Less tentative.
His hands framed your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks. You melted into him, fingers curling into his jacket again, grounding yourself in the reality of it.
When you pulled back, breathless, you rested your forehead against his.
“I’m really glad it’s you,” you whispered.
He smiled, eyes closed. “Me too.”
And still—still—the night wasn’t ready to let go of you.
The night began to thin out around you without either of you noticing at first.
The streets grew quieter, shops darkened, conversations around you faded until it felt like the city itself was exhaling. Hudson checked his phone briefly, not to rush—but to be aware.
“It’s later than I thought,” he admitted, slipping it back into his pocket. “I don’t want to keep you out too long.”
You smiled softly. “I don’t feel kept.”
That earned you a small, fond smile in return.
You walked a little slower now, steps naturally syncing. Hudson’s hand found yours again, fingers threading together like it had already become a habit. No rush. No hesitation.
“I’m really glad we did this,” he said quietly.
There was something gentler in his voice now—less wondering, more certainty.
When you reached your street, you slowed even further, both of you aware without saying it that this was the beginning of the end of the night. Your building stood ahead, familiar and suddenly significant.
Hudson stopped a few steps away, not wanting to assume.
“So,” he said softly, “this is you.”
Neither of you moved right away.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was full—of everything you hadn’t said yet, and everything you didn’t need to.
“I was nervous tonight,” he admitted suddenly, eyes fixed on the ground for a moment before lifting back to yours. “I don’t usually get like that.”
You smiled. “You hid it well.”
He laughed under his breath. “I didn’t feel like I was hiding anything with you.”
That made your chest tighten in the best way.
You stepped a little closer, close enough to feel his warmth again. “I felt safe,” you said honestly. “That’s rare for me.”
His expression softened completely at that. “I’m really glad.”
He leaned in then, pressing a kiss to your forehead—slow, lingering, intentional. When he pulled back, his hands stayed at your waist, grounding but respectful.
“I don’t want to rush this,” he said. “I want to do it right.”
The kiss that followed was unhurried and warm, filled with promise rather than urgency. It tasted like late-night air and sweetness from dessert, felt like something you’d replay later when you were alone.
When you finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his again.
“I’ll text you,” you said softly.
He smiled. “I’ll be waiting.”
You hesitated before stepping away, squeezing his hand one last time before letting go. The loss of contact was noticeable—but not painful. Just real.
You walked up to your door without looking back until your key was already in the lock. When you did glance over your shoulder, he was still there—hands in his pockets, watching you with that same quiet attention.
He lifted a hand in a small wave.
You smiled and waved back.
Inside, you leaned against the door for a moment, heart still racing, mind replaying the night in fragments: his laugh, the way he listened, the way nothing felt forced.
Outside, Hudson stayed where he was for a moment longer, letting the night settle into him. He hadn’t expected the evening to feel so… grounding.
He pulled out his phone, typing a message he didn’t send yet. Just stared at your name on the screen, smiling to himself.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
And as he finally turned toward his car, he knew one thing for certain—
That hadn’t been just a date.
On Saturday you started getting ready too early.
You knew it the moment you checked the time for the third time and realized Connor wasn’t supposed to be there for at least another hour. Still, your body refused to relax. You paced your room, half-dressed, replaying his text in your head like it might change if you thought about it hard enough.
Connor: I’ll pick you up at eight.
No emojis. No jokes. Just confidence.
That alone made your stomach flip.
You changed outfits once. Then twice. Then stood in front of the mirror, arms crossed, staring at your reflection like it might give you an answer. Connor wasn’t subtle. He never had been. That was part of what made this so nerve-wracking—there would be no guessing with him. No soft easing into things. Whatever he felt, you’d know.
Your phone buzzed at exactly eight.
You took a breath, grabbed your jacket, and stepped out before you could overthink it.
Connor was leaning against his car, one foot crossed over the other, phone in hand. When he looked up and saw you, his whole face changed. His grin spread slowly, deliberately, like he wanted you to see exactly how much he liked what he saw.
He straightened, pushing off the car. His eyes dragged over you openly, unapologetically. “Wow,” he added. “Yeah. That was the right call.”
You laughed, heat creeping into your cheeks. “You didn’t even know what I was choosing between.”
“Didn’t need to,” he replied easily. “You always look good.”
The way he said it—like a fact, not a compliment—made your chest tighten.
The car ride was anything but quiet. Connor had music playing louder than necessary, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, occasionally singing under his breath. Badly. On purpose.
“You’re judging me,” he accused, glancing at you.
“I would never,” you said sweetly.
He snorted. “You’re a terrible liar.”
You smiled despite yourself. The energy between you felt electric, restless. Not calm like it had been with Hudson—this was brighter, louder, charged. Connor filled space effortlessly, but he still checked in, glancing at you like he wanted to make sure you were keeping up with him.
“So,” he said casually, “how nervous are you right now?”
You blinked. “Should I be nervous?”
He smirked. “Just a little.”
Dinner was at a lively place—warm lights, chatter filling the air, glasses clinking. Connor fit right into it, joking with the server, making you laugh before you even sat down. He leaned across the table when he talked, elbows close, knee brushing yours more than once.
The conversation flowed easily. Stories from set. Behind-the-scenes chaos. Connor imitating cast members so perfectly you nearly choked on your drink laughing.
“I live for that laugh,” he said suddenly, watching you wipe tears from your eyes.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, grinning. “Just… you laugh like you mean it.”
Something about that made your stomach flutter.
At some point, his teasing softened.
“You know,” he said, resting his chin in his hand, “I almost didn’t ask you out.”
That caught you off guard. “Why?”
He shrugged, gaze steady on yours. “Didn’t want to make things weird.”
“You?” you teased. “Worried about being weird?”
He laughed. “Okay, fair. But with you… I cared more than I expected to.”
The honesty in his voice surprised you. Connor was confident, yes—but this was different. This was vulnerable.
Dinner lasted longer than either of you expected.
Not because the food took too long, but because Connor refused to let the conversation die. Every time there was a pause, he filled it—not desperately, not awkwardly, but naturally, like he thrived in momentum.
“So,” he said, cutting into his food, “be honest. What was your first impression of me?”
You laughed. “You really want that?”
You pretended to think. “Loud. Confident. A little intimidating.”
“A little?” he repeated, mock-offended.
You smiled. “Okay. Very intimidating.”
He grinned, clearly pleased. “Good. I like that.”
“That you’re intimidating?”
His eyes lingered on you longer than necessary, and suddenly the teasing felt heavier. Intentional.
Connor leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms slightly. “What about now?”
“Am I still intimidating?”
You met his gaze. “Less.”
He tilted his head. “Why’s that?”
“Because now I know you’re not just… that guy,” you said. “You’re still confident, but there’s more going on under it.”
Something shifted in his expression. Not dramatic—just quieter.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “There is.”
The waiter came by, breaking the moment. Connor thanked them easily, flashing a smile that made it clear he was used to being liked. When the attention was back on you, his tone softened again.
“You make it easy to talk,” he said. “That doesn’t happen often.”
“You talk to everyone,” you teased.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “But not like this.”
The restaurant buzzed around you—laughter, movement, clinking glasses—but Connor’s focus didn’t waver. He listened when you spoke, really listened, eyes tracking your expressions like he didn’t want to miss anything.
At one point, you caught him staring.
He smiled slowly. “Nothing. Just… you look really comfortable right now.”
You were. And that realization surprised you.
As dinner stretched on, the conversation drifted deeper. Childhood stories. Embarrassing memories. Moments neither of you usually shared. Connor talked about pressure—about always feeling like he had to be “on.”
“People expect a certain version of me,” he said, tracing the edge of his glass. “Sometimes I don’t even know where that version ends and I begin.”
You nodded. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” he admitted. “But tonight doesn’t feel like that.”
That warmth settled in your chest again—the same one Hudson had sparked, but different. Brighter. More charged.
After dinner, Connor paid without discussion and stood, offering you his hand like it was second nature. You took it, feeling the contrast immediately—his grip firm, confident.
Outside, the night had cooled. Connor inhaled deeply, like he’d been waiting to get out into the open air.
“Walk with me,” he said. Not a question.
The city felt alive around you. Connor pointed things out—places he liked, places he hated, random stories tied to street corners. He walked close, shoulder occasionally brushing yours, like he was testing how much space you’d let him take.
“You ever feel like nights like this aren’t real?” he asked suddenly.
“Like they exist outside of normal life,” he said. “Like tomorrow everything goes back to being… complicated.”
You glanced at him. “Does that scare you?”
He shrugged. “A little. But I’d rather have one real night than a hundred safe ones.”
That made your heart race.
At a quiet corner, he stopped walking. Streetlight catching in his eyes, softer now.
“Can I do something?” he asked.
“Yes,” you answered without hesitation.
He smiled at that, stepping closer, hands resting lightly at your waist—not pulling, not rushing. Just there.
The kiss was confident, sure—but not careless. Connor kissed like he meant it, like he’d thought about it. When you responded, he smiled into it, like he’d been waiting for confirmation.
After the kiss, neither of you spoke right away.
Connor stayed close, hands still resting at your waist, not tightening, not letting go. His forehead brushed against yours as he laughed softly under his breath, like he was amused by how natural it had felt.
“Well,” he said eventually, voice low, “that changed the vibe.”
You smiled. “Just a little.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said. “I just didn’t expect you to be so… gentle.”
His eyebrows lifted in mock offense. “Hey. I can be gentle.”
“I’m discovering that,” you teased.
He grinned, but something in his expression softened. “I don’t do things halfway. Not when I care.”
That word lingered between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.
You started walking again, slower now, like neither of you wanted to rush toward anything resembling an ending. Connor kept close, occasionally bumping your shoulder with his, like he needed the physical reassurance that you were still there.
“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “what’s something most people get wrong about you?”
The question surprised you. “That’s… specific.”
He shrugged. “I’m curious.”
You thought about it. “People think I’m more confident than I am,” you admitted. “I know how to act like I have things figured out, but most of the time I’m just… improvising.”
Connor nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”
“What about you?” you asked. “Besides the obvious.”
He laughed. “Besides the obvious.” He took a moment. “People think I’m always sure of myself. Like I never doubt anything.”
“All the time,” he said honestly. “I just don’t like letting it show.”
That vulnerability caught you off guard again. Connor noticed.
“You didn’t expect that,” he said.
“I expected honesty,” you replied. “I just didn’t expect it so easily.”
He smiled at that. “You make it easy.”
You walked past a closed storefront, its dark windows reflecting the two of you side by side. Connor glanced at the reflection, then back at you.
“It’s weird,” he said. “Seeing us like that.”
“Like… real,” he said quietly. “Not at work. Not in between things. Just—this.”
You swallowed. “Does that scare you?”
He considered it. “A little. But in a good way.”
You ended up stopping at a small park, nearly empty at that hour. Connor sat on the edge of a low wall, patting the space beside him.
The city noise softened around you, replaced by distant traffic and the rustle of leaves. Connor leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky.
“Do you ever think about where you’re headed?” he asked suddenly.
“Does it ever feel… too open?” he continued. “Like there are too many options and no clear direction?”
“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “That’s exactly how it feels.”
He nodded, exhaling slowly. “Good. I thought it was just me.”
You laughed softly. “Definitely not.”
He turned his head to look at you, eyes catching the dim light. “You’re different tonight.”
“More yourself,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just seeing more of it.”
You shifted closer, your shoulder brushing his arm. “And you?”
“Same,” he said. “I don’t usually slow down like this.”
You sat there longer than you realized, talking about things that never came up during work—fears, hopes, the pressure of expectations. Connor listened, really listened, occasionally interrupting with a joke just to lighten the mood when things got too heavy.
At some point, he reached for your hand again, absentmindedly tracing patterns on your palm as you spoke.
“You’re really good at this,” you said.
“Making people feel comfortable.”
He shrugged. “I learned early that if you make people laugh, they stick around.”
“And if they don’t laugh?”
His thumb stilled for just a second. “Then I try harder.”
That honesty hit deeper than he probably intended.
You stood eventually, legs stiff, neither of you eager to admit how late it had gotten. Connor stretched, then offered you his arm dramatically.
You laughed, looping your arm through his. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Consistently,” he agreed.
The walk back felt quieter, more intimate. Connor leaned closer, his tone softer now, like the night itself had pulled some of the edge out of him.
“I’m glad you said yes,” he said suddenly.
“I wasn’t sure you would,” he admitted. “You’re… hard to read.”
You smiled. “So are you.”
He laughed. “That’s a lie.”
When your building came into view, you both slowed instinctively. Connor didn’t stop right away, like he was hoping the sidewalk might stretch itself a little longer.
“I don’t want to rush this,” he said, echoing something you’d already heard tonight—but meaning it in his own way. “But I also don’t want you to think this was just… fun.”
You met his gaze. “It didn’t feel like just fun.”
He smiled, relief flickering across his face. “Good.”
He leaned in then, kissing you again—slower, deeper, less playful. His hands framed your face this time, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he wanted to memorize the feeling.
When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his chest for a moment, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.
“I’ll text you when I get home,” he said quietly.
He laughed softly. “I figured.”
You stepped back reluctantly, unlocking your door but not going inside right away. Connor watched you like he wanted to say more—but didn’t.
“Goodnight,” he said finally.
You went inside with your heart still racing, the night replaying itself in fragments—his laugh, his honesty, the way he looked at you like you were something worth slowing down for.
Outside, Connor stood there a moment longer than necessary, hands in his pockets, staring at your door.
That was definitely worth it.
You didn’t go to sleep right away.
You dropped your keys on the counter, slipped out of your jacket, and leaned back against the door, letting the quiet of your apartment settle around you. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts tangled and loud despite the silence.
The way he’d looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. The way his confidence softened into something quieter, more honest, as the night stretched on.
You hadn’t expected that.
Your phone buzzed in your hand before you could overthink it.
Connor: Home.
Connor: Still smiling, in case you were wondering.
You smiled back at the screen before answering.
You: I was wondering.
You: Glad you made it safe.
There was a pause—short, but noticeable.
The call came through almost immediately. His voice filled the space in a way that felt oddly intimate, like he’d stepped back into the room with you.
You could hear movement on his end—keys, maybe, or him pacing. He exhaled slowly.
“I just… didn’t want to end the night without hearing your voice again,” he admitted.
“That’s dangerous,” you teased gently.
He laughed. “I know. But I’ve never been great at playing it safe.”
You sank onto the couch, pulling your knees up. “Neither am I, apparently.”
There was a comfortable pause, the kind where neither of you rushed to fill the space.
“You know,” Connor said eventually, “I was trying really hard not to overdo it tonight.”
“Me,” he said. “I can be… a lot.”
You smiled softly. “I didn’t think it was too much.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I was holding back.”
That made you laugh quietly. “That’s terrifying.”
“Only a little,” he agreed. “But I meant what I said earlier. I didn’t want this to feel like a performance. I wanted it to feel real.”
“It did,” you said honestly.
Another pause. Then, more softly, “That’s why I wanted to call. Just to… make sure we’re on the same page.”
“And what page do you think we’re on?” you asked.
He hesitated—not long, but long enough to tell you he was choosing his words.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that tonight mattered. And I don’t want it to turn into one of those things we pretend didn’t happen once work starts again.”
“I don’t want that either,” you said. “I don’t regret tonight.”
You could hear the smile in his voice when he replied. “Good. Because neither do I.”
You talked longer than you meant to—about nothing and everything. Connor joked about small things, but there was an undercurrent of sincerity now, like he’d let you see behind the curtain and didn’t want to pull it back up just yet.
Eventually, your voice softened with tiredness.
“You sound exhausted,” he said.
He chuckled. “Yeah. But the good kind.”
There was another pause, heavier this time.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
“Did tonight feel different for you?” he asked. “Or am I reading into it?”
You didn’t answer right away. You wanted to be honest.
“It felt different,” you said finally. “Not rushed. Not forced. Just… right.”
His breath hitched slightly on the other end. “Okay. Good.”
You could almost picture him—leaning back, staring at the ceiling, that thoughtful look he got when he wasn’t performing for anyone.
“I’m glad it was you,” he said quietly.
Your heart skipped. “Me too.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It felt like a shared understanding settling into place.
“I should let you sleep,” he said eventually, reluctant.
“Yeah,” you agreed, even though neither of you moved to hang up.
“Text me tomorrow?” he asked.
“You don’t even have to ask.”
He smiled. You could hear it. “Goodnight.”
When the call ended, the apartment felt quieter—but not empty.
You went to bed with his words replaying in your head, the night folding itself gently into memory rather than slipping away.
The next morning, Connor woke up earlier than usual.
He lay there for a moment, phone resting on his chest, staring at the ceiling with a small smile he didn’t bother hiding—even from himself.
The night replayed in his mind in fragments: your laugh, the way you looked at him when he stopped joking, the feeling of your hand in his.
He hadn’t expected to feel grounded.
Before he could overthink it, he typed.
Connor: Morning.
Connor: Hope you slept okay.
You replied a few minutes later.
You: Morning.
You: I did. Still thinking about last night.
Connor smiled wider than he meant to.
Connor: Yeah?
Connor: Me too.
He set his phone down, exhaling slowly.
Whatever this was—whatever it was becoming—he knew one thing for sure.
That hadn’t been just a date.
And he wasn’t willing to pretend it was.
On a Wednesday , you met Connor again—but only briefly.
He didn’t plan it. Neither did you.
It was accidental, really. A coincidence born out of overlapping schedules and familiar places. You’d stopped by a small café near the studio, hoping caffeine would quiet the noise in your head, when you heard your name.
Connor stood a few steps away, sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt, hair still slightly messy like he’d just run his hands through it one too many times.
“Oh,” you said, blinking. “Hey.”
For a second, neither of you moved. The air felt different than it had the night before—lighter, but charged. Like the echo of something that hadn’t fully faded yet.
“I didn’t know you came here,” he said.
“I don’t, usually,” you replied. “Guess today’s just full of coincidences.”
He smiled at that. “Seems like it.”
You ended up sitting together anyway. Not a full date. Not planned. Just coffee, knees brushing under the small table, quiet smiles exchanged between sips.
Connor watched you the same way he had the night before—open, attentive, like he wasn’t trying to hide his interest anymore.
“I meant what I said,” he told you suddenly. “About not wanting last night to disappear.”
You met his gaze. “I know.”
“And I’m not asking for answers,” he added quickly. “Or labels. Or anything like that.”
He paused, searching your face. “I just want to keep choosing this. One step at a time.”
Something in your chest loosened.
“I can do that,” you said.
His smile was slower this time. Softer.
“Good,” he said. “Because I don’t rush things I actually care about.”
When you stood to leave, he didn’t pull you into a kiss—not here, not now. Instead, he leaned in just enough to murmur, “Text me when you get home.”
He hesitated, then added, quieter, “I’m glad it’s you.”
You nodded, feeling the weight—and warmth—of that truth settle in.
Walking away, you realized something important.
Connor wasn’t trying to win you over.
He wasn’t performing.
He wasn’t chasing a moment.
And that, somehow, felt like the real beginning.
Everything felt normal, easy, familiar—until Hudson appeared in the doorway, cue cards in hand, his gaze finding you immediately.
“You ready, sweetheart?” Hudson asked softly, and your stomach flipped.
Connor’s fingers brushed yours as he adjusted his sleeve. Hudson’s eyes never left you. And suddenly, the air between the three of you was impossibly charged.
Connor blinked at Hudson, who raised an eyebrow in return. Both of them froze, realization dawning without a single word yet.
“You… you too?” Connor asked finally, incredulous.
Hudson tilted his head, his jaw tightening slightly. “Wait… what?”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “I… I didn’t know how to tell you both,” you admitted, voice trembling slightly. “Because I… I like both of you. Equally.”
Silence stretched across the room, thick and heavy. For a moment, the three of you just stared at one another.
Connor’s jaw slackened, then a slow, incredulous grin spread across his face. “So… we’re both… dating you?”
Hudson’s lips parted, eyes wide. “Oh… ohhh,” he murmured, running a hand through his hair. “I thought I was the only one…” His laugh was nervous but warm.
You stepped back slightly, heart pounding. “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. That’s all.”
Connor’s grin softened, and he took a careful step closer. “You’re amazing,” he said simply. “And this… us… it doesn’t feel wrong at all. I like it.”
Hudson reached for your other hand, squeezing it gently. “Yeah… it feels right,” he said, voice low and intimate. “I wasn’t sure at first, but now… I think we can do this. Together.”
Connor exhaled slowly, chuckling nervously. “I mean… wow. Didn’t see that coming.” He glanced at Hudson, then back at you, his expression softening. “But I’m not complaining.”
Hudson laughed, shaking his head, his warmth radiating into the room. “Neither am I,” he admitted, brushing a gentle kiss across your temple.
Your chest felt impossibly full, beating in a way that made you feel alive and terrified all at once. You squeezed both their hands, letting the warmth sink in.
Connor tilted his head, eyes twinkling. “So… we’re officially a… trio?”
Hudson raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly. “Trio. I like that.”
You laughed softly. “It feels… right. Safe. Comfortable.”
Connor’s fingers traced circles along the back of your hand. “And… exciting,” he added.
Hudson nudged him playfully. “Exciting doesn’t begin to cover it.”
You shook your head, heart racing. “I’m… I’m not scared,” you admitted quietly. “I just… I’ve never felt this way before. With both of you at the same time.”
Connor leaned in, brushing your hair behind your ear. “And yet, here we are,” he murmured.
Hudson rested a hand on your shoulder, warmth grounding you. “Yeah. Here we are,” he repeated.
There was a brief, comfortable silence. Then Connor let out a soft laugh. “We should probably celebrate this… somehow.”
Hudson chuckled. “Dinner first, then celebration?”
You nodded, smiling. “Dinner sounds perfect.”
The three of you left the room together, shoulders brushing, hands still intertwined. Every step felt heavier with meaning, lighter with possibility. You could feel their hearts in sync with yours.
During dinner, small glances, quiet touches, and shared smiles kept your chest full. Every time Connor reached for your hand, Hudson mirrored the gesture, tracing slow circles over your knuckles with his thumb. The little, innocent touches were full of trust, reassurance, and unspoken promises.
“You know,” Connor said, leaning back slightly, “I wasn’t expecting this. But… I’ve never been happier about a surprise.”
Hudson laughed softly. “Neither have I. Honestly, I was panicking for a second.”
“You were?” Connor teased.
Hudson nodded, cheeks tinged pink. “Yeah… I didn’t want to step on your toes—or hers,” he said, gesturing toward you.
Connor’s smile softened. “No toes stepped on here,” he said, reaching across to squeeze Hudson’s hand briefly before returning to yours.
You felt your chest tighten with love. “I promise, no one’s stepping on anyone. We’ll figure this out… together,” you whispered.
Connor grinned, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Together,” he echoed, leaning closer.
Hudson mirrored him, pressing his lips softly to your temple. “Together,” he confirmed, voice low and sincere.
The rest of the night flowed effortlessly. Laughter, teasing, quiet conversations, soft touches. There were small moments of tension—brief glances that held worry—but they were immediately dissolved by gentle reassurance.
Connor reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. “You know… I almost didn’t text you,” he admitted, voice soft.
You tilted your head. “Why not?”
“I didn’t want to complicate things,” he said, eyes honest. “But then… I realized life’s complicated enough without ignoring what you feel.”
Hudson’s fingers brushed against yours. “I get that. I felt the same hesitation.”
You smiled, heart full. “And now?”
“Now?” Connor grinned, his hand covering yours. “Now we don’t hide anything.”
Hudson leaned closer, cheek resting against your hair. “Now we just… enjoy it. Take it slow, but enjoy it. Together.”
The conversation drifted to shared memories from work—funny moments on set, awkward mishaps during interviews, small victories you had all celebrated. Connor mimicked one of the directors so perfectly that you laughed until tears prickled your eyes. Hudson’s laugh, soft and melodic, wrapped around you like a warm blanket.
Time passed unnoticed. Plates were cleared, the restaurant emptied, and still none of you wanted to leave. The three of you lingered, caught in a bubble where nothing else mattered.
Finally, Connor whispered, “I could get used to this… all of us, together.”
Hudson smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Me too. I don’t want to go back to pretending this doesn’t exist.”
You squeezed both their hands, voice small but certain. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll make it work.”
Connor leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. “We’ve got you.”
Hudson pressed his lips softly to your hair. “Always.”
And in that quiet, lingering moment, you realized something profound: love wasn’t a line to be drawn or a choice to be made. It was a space—big enough, generous enough, and brave enough for all three of you.
You laughed softly, tilting your head to kiss them both, one after the other. “I know. Me neither.”
Connor smirked. “See? Nothing complicated here.”
Hudson nudged him playfully. “Speak for yourself.”
You giggled, brushing a stray hair from your cheek. “I don’t think we’ll ever be normal,” you said.
Connor grinned. “Normal is overrated.”
Hudson nodded. “I’ll take this over normal any day.”
The night ended with a quiet drive, hands intertwined, music playing softly, and whispered promises that didn’t need words. Every glance, every touch, every laugh cemented the bond between the three of you.
And when the car pulled up outside your apartment, neither Hudson nor Connor moved to let go. They just held you there, breathing you in, letting the moment linger, letting all the fear and tension dissolve.
Connor whispered, “Goodnight… but I think we’re just getting started.”
Hudson pressed his lips to your hair and said softly, “Always.”
You laughed, heart full. “Always.”
And in that quiet, lingering moment, the three of you understood—this was just the beginning.
reposts and likes are appreciated <3 @80ssatori
