Page 30 of Hunter

I really am going to need stronger boundaries.

Starting tomorrow.

My phone pings with a text as the sun is setting. I blink, pulling my focus back to the painting in front of me. It’s Hunter—bare chest, asleep on my couch with Sofia curled on his stomach like she belongs there. It’s probably the best thing I’ve ever done.

I inhale slowly and set the paintbrush down. I might actually use this one in my portfolio the next time I apply to a gallery.

Another ping pulls my eyes to the phone.

I pick it up. Two texts from Lucy.

Lucy: Hey, I’m off work. A few of us are going to The Spot tonight if you want to come.

Lucy: We will be there at 10.

I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, but I’m not tired. That’s the weird perk of my insomnia—if you can even call it that. I’d love to sleep. I just know that if I lie down, I’ll end up staring at the ceiling for hours, watching the headlights from cars streak across it like slow-moving ghosts.

I glance at the time on my phone: 8:03 p.m. Two solid hours. Enough for a shower, some decent clothes, and maybe even a nap that won’t actually happen. My body feels loose and wired at the same time, the kind of exhausted that doesn’t want rest—it wants noise, lights, people who don’t know anything about my trauma.

I type back quickly, thumbs moving before I can overthink it.

Charlie: I’ll meet you there at 10. Save me a seat.

I hit send, then toss the phone onto the little table beside my easel. The painting stares back at me—Hunter’s relaxed mouth, the imagined soft rise and fall of his chest under Sofia’s tiny body, the way the light hit his skin last night. Something tightens low in my gut, equal parts warmth and dread.

I stand, stretching until my spine pops, and head for the bathroom. The hot water is going to feel like heaven. And maybe, just maybe, tonight I can pretend I’m just another messy kid in the city instead of the one still carrying conversion therapy ghosts on his back.

Two hours later, I’m locking my apartment door behind me, hair still damp, eyeliner fresh, wearing the tightest black jeans I own and a cropped hoodie that shows a strip of skin when I move. The night air hits me as I step outside, loud and alive, exactly the way I like it. The Spot is only a ten-minute walk. Plenty of time to let the city noise drown out everything else.

I pull my phone out one more time and fire off another text to Lucy.

Charlie: On my way. See you soon.

Then I shove my hands in my pockets and start walking, the distant bass from somewhere down the block already calling my name.

Chapter 12

Hunter

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

But the second Charlie slips out the front door of his building, I’m already moving, feet carrying me down the sidewalk before my brain catches up. I told myself I came back to thank him for last night—maybe drop off dinner, say something normal like “hey, thanks for not leaving me for dead” and leave it at that. Except I never made it inside. Instead, I’d planted myself across the street like an idiot, leaning against the cold brick of the closed laundromat, watching the three big windows on the second floor that he left cracked open with the curtains pushed to the sides like he doesn’t give a shit who sees in.

It’s dangerous.

The warm light from inside spilled out onto the street, turning the whole scene into something private and golden. I could see everything. The way he shifted in front of that big canvas just beyond my view, head tilted, lips moving like he was talking to the paint itself. His face kept shifting—soft concentration melting into a small, secret smile, then tightening like something painful had brushed against him. Golden curls falling into his eyes every few minutes, only for him to shove them back with the back of his wrist, leaving faint smudges of charcoal or paint across his cheek. He looked… alive in a way most people don’t anymore. Raw. Like every feeling hit him full force and he just let it.

I told myself I was just making sure he was okay. Kid had looked wrecked at group last night, all that soft vulnerability he tried to hide behind ripped fishnets and smudged eyeliner. Somebody should check on him. That’s all this was. Basic human decency. And a thank you for being nice to me when I didn’t deserve it.

He’d disappeared from the window for a bit after his phone lit up—probably texting that friend of his—and I’d almost left then. Almost. But then he came back, hair damp from the shower, wearing a pair of tight black jeans that made his legs look even longer and a cropped hoodie that kept riding up every time he reached for something. The strip of pale skin at his waist caught the light every single time. I stayed.

Now he’s walking, shoulders loose, hands in his pockets, moving like the city belongs to him tonight. I keep half a block back, telling myself I’m not following. I’m just… walking the same direction. Same street. Same night. Plenty of people out. No big deal.

After about eight minutes, he turns the corner toward The Spot, that shitty little dive that pretends it’s a club, and I slow down just enough to keep him in sight. The way the streetlights hit his hair makes it look almost white-blond. The cropped hoodie lifts again when he reaches up to adjust his earbud, flashing that same sliver of skin. My jaw tightens at the sight of some guy checking him out.

He’s too soft for this city. Too soft for the kind of hands that have been on him in the past. Somebody should keep an eye on a kid like that. Make sure the dark doesn’t swallow him whole before he even realizes it’s happening.

That’s all I’m doing. Keeping an eye.