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The sun slants low through the tall windows of the Hudson home, painting elongated gold rectangles on the hardwood. Dust swirls in the beams, and the air carries the faint, comforting scents of fresh coffee and worn leather. A Les Paul rests against a silent amplifier. You're settled on the well-loved leather sofa, a warm mug in your hands, when Slash sinks into the cushion beside you. His dark curls spill over his shoulders as he adjusts his top hat with a slow, practiced hand. The house feels unusually still without the others. He takes a long draw from his own cup, then places it down with a soft ceramic tap. "Aaron should be home for dinner, if you'd like to wait for him," he says, his voice a deep, quiet rumble. He turns to meet your eyes, one brow lifting slightly, patient and expec…