Page 12 of Hunter

I snort, loud and ugly. “Right. Feeling it will allow me to release it. I live with it every day, and it still hasn’t gone away. Six months of waking up choking on smoke that isn’t there, and you think fucking therapy is gonna magically make it disappear?”

The blond kid is still watching me, and I silently snarl at him. A smile tugs at his lips, but he doesn’t look away. I fucking amuse him? He’s too fucking pretty. Boys shouldn’t be as pretty as he is. And I shouldn’t be noticing that shit about some damaged kid in therapy.

Tim nods like my outburst is perfectly reasonable. “That’s valid, Hunter. The pain doesn’t just vanish because we want it to. But carrying it alone makes it heavier. That’s why we’re here.”

I roll my eyes and lean back hard enough in my chair it creaks. “Heavier. Try killing your boyfriend and have your own skin melt off your body. And then you can tell me about heavier.”

The kid’s fingers twitch again. His lips part as if he’s about to say something kind and gentle, and I already know I’m going to hate whatever comes out of his mouth.

I cut my eyes straight to him, my voice dropping into something meaner. “What about you, twink? You gonna sit there staring at me all night with your pretty nails and your fuck-me eyeliner, or you got some trauma porn of your own to share? Let’s hear it. Bet it’s real cute compared to burning alive.”

The room goes quiet. A lady shifts uncomfortably next to him, reaching out to grip his hand softly. Tim opens his mouth, probably to redirect, but the blond kid only holds my gaze.

“Conversion therapy, actually,” he says, his voice so fucking soft it feels like a caress.

The words hang there, gentle and matter-of-fact, like he just told us the weather.

Conversion therapy.

I stare at him. He looks like he should be dancing in some club with friends, not sitting in a circle talking about being tortured for being gay.

And yet he says it like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t still cut him open.

Something ugly twists in my gut. Part of me wants to laugh in his face, mock him for thinking his church bullshit compares to dragging a charred body out of rubble. The other part—the part I hate more—feels the words as they hook behind my ribs.

Because, for one sick second, I wonder what they did to him to make that soft voice stay so steady.

I scoff anyway, loud and cruel, needing to shove the feeling away. “Conversion therapy? That’s your big trauma? Some backwoods preachers praying the gay away? Cute. Real fucking cute. At least they didn’t set you on fire.”

The lady next to him squeezes his hand tighter. Someone else clears their throat. Tim finally steps in, voice still calm but firmer now.

“Hunter, we don’t compare pain in this space. Everyone’s experience is valid.”

“Valid,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Right.”

I’m a bastard. I know it. Now everyone in this room knows it, too.

But I can’t stop looking at him. Even as Tim moves on to his next target, I barely hear a word of what anyone else says. The kid stays engaged, nodding gently, offering soft words of support when someone else shares. His painted fingers stay steady. That soft voice never wavers. It pisses me off even more.

By the time the session ends, I’m so angry I wish I could take it out on something. Because if this soft little twink, with his painted nails and gentle voice, can sit here after whatever hell they put him through and not look like he wants to kill himself, it means he’s stronger than me.

And I fucking hate that.

People start milling around like it’s some goddamn social hour—grabbing shitty coffee, chatting quietly, hugging. I stay planted in my chair, shoulders tight, jaw locked. The blond kid stands up, baggy sweater slipping off one shoulder, exposing soft skin underneath. He looks even smaller on his feet. Breakable.

I can’t help it. I push up and cut across the room before I can talk myself out of it.

He’s reaching for his bag when I step into his space, close enough that he has to tilt his head back to meet my eyes. Up close, he smells like something clean and sweet—vanilla and berries maybe. It makes my stomach twist.

“Nice story, twink,” I say, voice low and mean. “Real inspiring. You can survive praying.”

He doesn’t step back or flinch. Those smoke-blue eyes just look up at me, the eyeliner making them look even softer.

“My name’s Charlie,” he says quietly. “Not twink. And it was more than praying.”

The correction hits me hard. For half a second, I almost apologize. Almost. Then the rage surges back harder.

“Whatever you say, Charlie,” I spit, leaning in just a little more, towering over him. “Keep staring at me like you can fix what’s broken. See how well that works when you realize some of us aren’t worth saving.”