Page 14 of Hunter

Every night I cried myself to sleep, tasting shame so thick it coated my throat like communion wine gone sour. I learned to go somewhere else in my head. No matter what they did to me. I learned that my body could be used as a weapon against itself and still not break completely.

I survived it.

Barely.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes for a second, breathing in the cool night air until the memory loosens its grip.

I’m not that scared boy anymore. I’m not.

I have the city. I have Sofia waiting at home, demanding pets and belly rubs like the tiny tyrant she is. And I have Lucy and her ridiculous texts and bright personality. I’m healing, inch by inch.

But some part of me, the part that is still a little damaged, soft, and stupid, wants to know what Hunter’s hands feel like and what his voice sounds like when he isn’t trying to keep people away.

It just proves I need more therapy.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Lucy, probably, because she’s the only one that I really talk to. I don’t check it yet. Instead, I start walking toward the subway, fishnets rubbing against my jeans, my sweater slipping off of one shoulder again.

The city wraps around me like it always does. I love it here. I really do. But tonight, the lights feel a little too bright and the noise a little too loud, as though everything is pressing in on the quiet ache Hunter left behind with his careless words.

I pull my sweater back up over my shoulder and keep walking.

He called me a twink like that was supposed to hurt my feelings. And maybe my softness is the problem.

But the way he looked at me and how his eyes stayed on me the whole time, there wasn’t just anger. There was something else in those hazel eyes. It was raw and desperate and almost…hungry. Like he hated that he couldn’t look away.

I really shouldn’t have liked that attention. Because I know men like him can go dark and obsessive. And that combination is bad for my healing. No matter how much I love how it makes me feel.

I descend the subway stairs anyway, the rumble of the train vibrating up through my soles. The car is half-empty this late, so I find a seat in the corner and finally pull out my phone.

Lucy: Marcus texted me. Spill. How bad was the new haunted boy? On a scale of sad puppy to I need to stage an intervention and hide your glitter?

I stare at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering. Part of me wants to downplay it. Tell her he was basically another guy who only knows how to throw barbs because he’s hurting.

Me: Closer to, I should not find that hot. He’s…really hot. A firefighter. And he called me a twink twice.

Her reply is almost instant; three fire emojis, a skull, and a string of question marks.

Lucy: CHARLIE. NO. You are not adopting the smoke monster. I repeat: DO NOT. We talked about this.

I huff a quiet laugh and sink further into my seat, only glancing up when an old man shifts on the other end of the car.

Me: I know. I’m not going to adopt anyone. Promise.

I don’t wait for another text before adding.

Me: He is hurting, though. And I’m a good listener.

Lucy: That’s the problem, princess. You listen with your whole heart and then wonder why it gets stepped on. Are you headed home?

Me: Yes. And I’ll lock the door, Mom, and text you the second I get there.

Lucy: You better. Xoxo

She follows her text with a heart emoji. I smile at the screen, the little heart emoji making something warm settle in my chest despite everything. Lucy has been my safe place since the day I met her at pole class—loud, bright, and zero tolerance for me falling back into old patterns. She’s gone to a few of the therapy circles with me, as a support person, so she knows the whole story.

The train rattles on. I lean my head back on the cool glass and close my eyes for a second. It’s bad that I can picture his gruff face in my head. I’ll probably paint him when I get home. In fact, my fingers itch to get a hold of my brush and some paint.

The image is already forming — those hazel eyes, flat and burning at the same time, the dark messy hair falling across his forehead, the tense line of his jaw like he’s one wrong word away from shattering. I’d paint him in heavy oils, maybe with smoke curling around the edges, the fresh gauze on his shoulder barely visible under the collar of a worn FDNY hoodie. Something raw and ruined and still somehow magnetic.