Page 92 of None Of Your Business

We’re close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

“That you know so much when I know so little about you,” I say. “That you got to see me break last night. That I’m somehow comfortable enough with you to just hand it all over.” A humorless laugh escapes me. “When the hell did that happen? When do I ever talk to head doctors?”

That gets the faintest twitch from his mouth.

“You got in here.” I tap two fingers against my temple. “And I hate it.”

The impenetrable composure he always wears softens, revealing something deeply worn beneath.

“My brother’s name was Ethan,” Hudson starts. “He was twenty-five and struggling, but he was good at hiding it. He was brilliant and completely silent about how much pain he was in. He was my best friend, and I had to cut him down when he took his own life.”

A cold shudder runs down my spine.

“It’s why I left emergency medicine. I swore to myself that I would spend the rest of my life learning to read the warning signs, so no one else would ever slip away undetected.”

Oh, Hudson.

I don’t reach for any of the phrases people offer when they don’t know what else to say. We both know none of them work.

“What was he like?” I ask instead, leaning against the edge of my work table.

He blinks, surprised. “What?”

“Ethan,” I say. “Tell me about him. What was his favorite movie? What made him laugh?”

A small but genuine smile touches the corners of his mouth.

“He was obsessed with terrible eighties sci-fi.” His eyes drift, lost in a memory. “He used to force me to watch Tron at two in the morning.”

“Was he annoying about it?”

“Deeply.”

“Good. I like that. What else? Not the ending. Just about him.”

“He was loud. Funny. Terrible at keeping secrets, which used to drive me crazy when we were kids.”

I can’t help but smile. “He sounds like a nightmare.”

Hudson nods, chuckling under his breath. “He was.”

“I think I would have liked him.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Will you tell me more?”

And he does.

For ten minutes, Hudson talks. He lets his brother be in the room with us, not as a tragedy but as a living, breathing person who was deeply loved.

When he’s finished and looks like he’s been stripped bare, I close the distance between us and place my palm over his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart beneath his shirt.

“He would be so proud of you. The man you are. The way you care for people. I know he would be proud.”

He stares at me, his gaze searching my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch in my throat. Ever so slowly, he cups the back of my neck and pulls me in, pressing a quick kiss to the top of my head.

I become painfully aware of the warmth of his palm against my neck, the steady rise of his chest beneath my hand, and how easy it would be to tilt my face up another few inches.