Page 19 of Hunter

I take the six-pack from him and head for the kitchenette, popping two bottles open. “It’s fine. PT this morning was a bitch, but I’m doing the exercises. Doc says full range in a few weeks if I don’t fuck it up.” I hand him a beer and clink mine against it. “This is basically a vacation. Paid time off, no alarms at three in the morning, no captain riding my ass. Living the dream.”

Mike doesn’t laugh. He takes a long pull from the bottle and watches me too closely. “Cap said the court ordered you to that trauma group. New Light or whatever. How’s that going?”

I shrug with the good shoulder, keeping the grin locked in place. “First session was last night. Bunch of people sitting in a circle talking about their feelings. Real uplifting stuff. I told them I lost my partner in a fire and almost took two more guys with me last week. They seemed real impressed.”

He winces. “Jesus, Hunter…”

“What? It’s the truth.” I take a long swallow, the beer cold and bitter. “Look, I’m fine. Therapy’s just another box to check so they’ll let me back on the truck. I’ll sit there, nod at the right times, and be back on shift before you know it.”

Mike sets his bottle down, expression serious. “You don’t have to do this alone, man. If you need rides to PT, someone to talk to, hell—even if you just want company so you’re not sitting in this apartment staring at the walls…call me. We’re family. Robby would’ve⁠—”

“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than I mean it to. I dial it back fast, forcing the grin wider. “I appreciate it. Really. But I’m good. Just need to knock out the PT and the group shit, and I’ll be back on the line. You don’t have to babysit me.”

He studies me for a long moment, then nods once, reluctant. “Alright. But the offer stands. Anytime.”

We finish the beers in mostly silence. I keep the mask up the whole time—joking about old calls, giving him shit about his latest Tinder disaster, laughing at the right moments. When he finally leaves, clapping me on the good shoulder and telling me to take it easy, I close the door behind him and let the grin slide off my face like dead skin.

The apartment feels too quiet again.

I drop onto the futon, shoulder throbbing from PT. And like I’ve done since last night, my thoughts go back to the first session at New Light. Replaying the way that blond kid with the golden curls and painted nails looked at me as though he could actually see every scar I am trying to hide. And how soft and gentle his voice was even when I baited him by calling him names. Even now, something twists inside my chest that has nothing to do with the burns.

I really hate that I keep thinking about him.

But at the same time, Robby’s voice is a little quieter when I do.

Pushing myself back up, my shoulder protests, and I grab another beer from the fridge and crack it open. I probably shouldn’t be drinking on my pain meds.

The first swallow burns going down, but I know it will help dull the edge just enough. I lean back against the futon, bottle dangling from my fingers, and let the silence press in. In the past, Robby would have had music playing just to break it up.

We’d laugh and dance and fuck until we were breathless. I miss those nights the most when my ears ring with the nothingness that has been left behind.

I let a memory wash over me. Welcoming it with open arms.

Robby’s laugh fills the old apartment we shared in the East Village, the one with the shitty radiator and the window that never closed right.

He’s got that ridiculous playlist on—old-school R&B mixed with whatever new shit he found on TikTok—and he’s dancing in the middle of the living room like no one’s watching. Golden light from the cheap lamp catches in his hair, turning it almost bronze. He’s barefoot, wearing nothing but my old FDNY T-shirt that hangs loose on his narrower frame, and he’s singing off-key at the top of his lungs.

“Come on, Hunter!” he calls, grabbing my hand and yanking me off the couch. “You’re not allowed to be this stiff after a shift. Dance with me, asshole.”

I pretend to resist, but I’m already laughing, letting him pull me into the middle of the room. His hands slide around my waist, warm and sure, and we move together like idiots—no rhythm, just joy. He smells like the citrus soap he always steals from the station and the faint smoke that never quite leaves our skin. When the song slows, he presses his forehead to mine, eyes bright and happy, the kind of happiness that used to make my chest hurt in the best way.

“You’re stuck with me, you know that?” he whispers against my mouth, grinning like he just won the lottery. “Even when you’re grumpy and covered in soot and pretending you don’t love this.”

I kiss him instead of answering, tasting laughter and the future we thought we had.

The memory fades.

I’m back on the futon, beer bottle cold in my hand, the apartment dead silent except for the distant hum of the city outside. Robby’s laugh is gone. The music is gone. The warmth of his hands on my waist is gone.

All that’s left is the burn in my shoulder and the hollow ache where he used to be.

I take another long swallow, eyes burning, and let the alcohol do its job. At least the beer doesn’t lie to me. It doesn’t pretend everything’s going to be okay.

Is there a point of drinking too much? If there is, I’ve probably surpassed it the last few days. I crack bleary eyes open and focus on the clock next to my futon. 5:34 PM. Guess I’m going to be late and drunk at the next trauma circle.

The empty bottles on the coffee table mock me. Ten? Twelve? I lost count somewhere between the memories of Robby and the third time I replayed that soft blond kid’s voice in my head today. The apartment smells like stale beer.

I should shower or eat something that isn’t liquid. And if I plan on faking any kind of healing, I should probably not show up to that fucking feelings circle smelling like a distillery and looking as if I just crawled out of the grave.