Page 27 of Hunter

I just lie there, the sunlight warming my skin, the cat’s weight a strange comfort, and let the guilt and the want and the hangover all crash together until I can’t tell which one hurts more.

The front door clicks open.

I don’t open my eyes right away. I already know it’s him. The air in the room shifts the second he steps inside—that faint vanilla scent cutting through the air.

Charlie pauses in the doorway. I can feel his gaze on me, taking in the scene: me sprawled on his couch, shirtless, with his anti-social cat curled happily on my chest like she’s decided I’m her new throne.

“Morning,” he says softly. “You look…comfortable.”

I crack one eye open.

He’s changed into fresh clothes—soft gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a loose white t-shirt that’s slightly too big, the collar slipping off one shoulder to show a strip of smooth skin. His golden curls are still messy from sleep, and the faint trace of eyeliner from last night is gone, but he still looks soft. Too soft for the mess I am.

Sofia lifts her head, gives him a slow, smug blink like she’s daring him to complain, then settles back down with a louder purr, kneading my sternum harder as if to say mine now.

Charlie’s lips twitch, fighting a smile. “She’s such a traitor. She never likes anyone. Usually hides under the bed when people come over.”

I grunt, my hand still resting on her back as if it belongs there. “Yeah, well… she’s got bad taste.”

He crosses the small space and sets a paper bag on the counter, the faint smell of coffee and something sweet drifting over. His eyes flick over me again—bare chest, the fresh bandage on my shoulder, the way I’m sprawled on his couch like I have every right to be here.

“You slept okay?” he asks, voice gentle, almost careful.

I shrug with the good shoulder, the movement pulling at the burns. “Better than the futon at my place. Thanks for… not kicking me out on my ass last night.”

Charlie’s gaze lingers on the bandage for a second, then moves back to my face. There’s something in his eyes—curiosity, concern, that same steady softness that’s been crawling under my skin since the first time he looked at me.

“You were pretty out of it,” he says quietly. “Didn’t seem right to send you home alone.”

The words hang there, simple and kind. I should leave. I should thank him, grab my shirt, and get the fuck out before I do something stupid like pull him down onto this couch with me.

But I don’t move.

And Charlie doesn’t tell me to.

He clears his throat. “I uh, have an extra toothbrush if you want to use it. It’s new. After last night, I’m sure your mouth tastes like a dumpster. Or, if you want you can have coffee and a donut first. I brought enough to share.”

The casual mention of my breath hits like a slap. I run my tongue over my teeth and immediately regret it—sour beer, puke, and bile. My mouth does taste like a dumpster. Probably smells like one, too. The thought of breathing on him right now makes my stomach twist in a whole new way.

I sit up slowly, Sofia protesting with a dramatic meow as she’s dislodged from my chest. The blanket pools around my waist. His eyes dip to my chest, then my abs, and it makes something warm spread through me.

I feel like a fucking peacock wanting to strut my stuff and spread my feathers wider so he’ll notice more.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Toothbrush sounds good. Don’t want to poison the coffee with whatever’s crawling around in my mouth right now.”

Charlie gives a small nod and gestures toward the bathroom. “It’s on the sink in the package. Help yourself.”

I push to my feet, the room tilting for a second, and make my way to the tiny bathroom. The mirror is merciless: bloodshot eyes, three-day stubble, hair sticking up like I lost a fight with a tornado. I look exactly like the mess I am.

I brush my teeth harder than necessary, the mint burning away the worst of the taste, but it doesn’t touch the shame sitting heavy in my chest. When I come back out, Charlie’s set two coffees and a small bag of donuts on the tiny counter. He looks so fucking tempting in those gray sweat pants, too tempting for someone like me.

I grab one of the coffees, the heat grounding me a little. “Thanks.”

He shrugs, picking at a chocolate donut. “Least I could do after dragging you here last night.”

We eat in silence for a minute, the only sounds the distant city hum and Sofia’s occasional meow from the couch like she’s offended we’re not paying attention to her. The coffee is good—strong, black, exactly what my pounding head needs. The donut is sweet and flaky, and for a second, the normalcy of it all feels almost dangerous.

I don’t have normal anymore. Normal is a thing of the past.