Page 18 of Hunter

“Alright, princess. You survived. Barely. Let’s get food before I pass out. I’m thinking that little Thai place on the corner—the one with the mango sticky rice that makes me want to propose to the chef.”

I laugh, the sound still a little hoarse but real. “You say that every time. One of these days you’re actually going to do it, and I’ll have to be your witness at the wedding.”

“Only if you promise to wear your eyeliner and the fishnets under your suit. Deal?”

“Deal.”

We change quickly, then step out into the bright midday sun. The city feels loud and alive again, the way I love it. Horns, street vendors shouting, the smell of fried dough and spices drifting from food carts. We walk the two blocks to the Thai place, shoulders bumping, Lucy chattering about nothing important and everything at once.

Once we’re settled at a tiny table by the window with bowls of pad thai and fresh spring rolls between us, she steals a piece of mango from my sticky rice and points her chopsticks at me.

“So. Serious question. How’s the gallery hunt going? You said you were going to submit to that little spot in East Village—the one with the exposed brick walls and the owner who looks like she hasn’t slept since 2017.”

I twirl noodles around my chopsticks, smiling despite the leftover heaviness in my chest. “I dropped off my portfolio last week. Three new pieces—the big abstract with the gold leaf and two smaller ones from that series I did after I first moved here. The owner said she liked the texture work, but she’s got a waiting list six months long. Still…it felt good to hand them over instead of just keeping them in my studio.”

Lucy’s eyes light up. “That’s huge, Charlie. You’re getting closer. One of these days some fancy curator is going to walk in, see your stuff, and lose their mind. Then you’ll be too busy with gallery openings to come to pole with me, and I’ll have to find a new gay bestie.”

I snort. “Never. You’re stuck with me.”

“Even if you become some big artsy asshole?” she teases, stealing another piece of mango from my sticky rice with zero shame.

“Especially then,” I say, laughing softly. “Who else is going to remind me to eat something besides hot dogs and street food? Or threaten to stage interventions every time I look at a tall, damaged man for too long?”

Lucy grins, wide and wicked. “Exactly. That’s my job. Permanent emotional support bestie and professional cockblocker of bad decisions. The position is non-negotiable.”

We both laugh, the sound easy and familiar, cutting through the heaviness in my chest like sunlight through clouds. She launches into a ridiculous story about her latest shift at the coffee shop—some guy who tried to impress her by quoting poetry but kept mixing up Sylvia Plath with Dr. Seuss—and I let myself sink into it. No nightmares. No Hunter. Just sticky rice and the kind of friendship that feels like family is supposed to be.

By the time we finish eating and split the bill, the afternoon sun is warm on my face as we step back onto the sidewalk.

Lucy bumps my shoulder with hers. “Seriously, though…keep submitting. Your work deserves to be seen. And when you finally get that big gallery show, I’m showing up in the loudest outfit possible and telling everyone I knew you when you were eating hot dogs for breakfast and crying over sad boys.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” I say, smiling.

She pulls me into one last quick hug, squeezing tight. “Text me later. And don’t stay up painting until dawn again. Love you, princess.”

“Love you, too, Luce.”

Chapter 8

Hunter

Three days out of that fucking hospital and the city already feels like it’s trying to choke me.

I spent the first day scrubbing my apartment until my shoulder screamed and the carpet was raw from how hard I attacked the dried vomit. The second day I went to my court-ordered therapy and then came back and drank until the edges blurred. Today I actually went to PT like a good little patient, then came straight back and collapsed on the futon.

The knock on the door comes just after six.

I know who it is before I even open it. Only one person in my life would show up unannounced.

Mike stands there in civilian clothes, holding a six-pack and looking like he’s bracing for a fight. “Heard you were out. Figured I’d swing by, see if you needed anything.”

I slap the mask on so fast it almost cracks.

I grin, easy and familiar, the same one I’ve been wearing since I was a probie. “Mike! Come on in, man. You didn’t have to bring beer, but I’m not gonna turn it down.”

He steps inside, eyes scanning the place as if he’s looking for evidence of a crime. The carpet still has faint stains no matter how hard I scrubbed. The empty bottles are gone, but the air still smells faintly of all the cleaning agents I used.

“You look…better than last time I saw you,” he says carefully. “Shoulder holding up?”