Page 33 of Hunter

But I dance like the only eyes that matter are his.

I roll my hips slower, let my head fall back so my hair brushes my shoulders, run my hands down my own sides just to feel the fabric shift. When the beat drops, I drop with it, knees bending, back arching, then rising again with a little spin that makes the hem of the hoodie flash skin. Every move is for him. Dangerous. Stupid. Addictive.

Lucy clocks it. Of course she does. She’s been my best friend since I crawled into this city half-broken; she sees everything.

We tumble back to the table after the third song, flushed and breathless. I drop into the chair next to Hunter, close enough that my knee brushes his under the table. He doesn’t pull away. That warm feeling flares brighter.

Lucy leans forward, elbows on the sticky wood, wicked little smile already in place. She looks straight at Hunter like he’s prey.

“So, Hunter,” she starts, voice sweet enough to rot teeth, “you just happened to be in the neighborhood tonight? In a city this big, what are the odds?”

Maya and Heather exchange a glance. Clay smirks into his beer, clearly enjoying the show.

Hunter stays quiet, but I can feel the shift in him—shoulders tightening just a fraction.

Lucy doesn’t let up. “You always stare that hard at people you’re dropping by to say hi to? Because from where I’m sitting, you look like you want to eat him alive. Or maybe protect him from the entire world. Which is it?”

Heat floods my face. I sink lower in my chair, but I can’t stop the small, embarrassed smile tugging at my lips. Part of me wants to tell her to shut up. The other part—the buzzing, warm, stupid part—wants to hear what he’ll say.

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing playfully. “And be honest. You followed him in here tonight, didn’t you? Not just ‘in the neighborhood.’ Be real with us. Do you always tail pretty boys with eyeliner and daddy issues, or is our Charlie special?”

Heather snorts. Maya covers her mouth, laughing behind her hand. Clay leans back, arms crossed, waiting for the answer like it’s better than the music.

I risk a glance at Hunter. My heart’s hammering now, the buzz mixing with something sharper—nerves, want, that old familiar fear that anything good gets twisted into shame eventually. But right now, with his eyes still on me and the low lights painting shadows across his face, it feels worth the risk.

I bite my lip and wait, the dangerous little thrill curling tighter in my chest.

Lucy isn’t done. She leans in even closer, voice dropping like she’s sharing a secret with the whole table. “Come on, big guy. Tell us—how long have you been watching him? And what exactly do you want from our pretty little disaster here?”

The table goes expectantly quiet, all eyes on Hunter.

I should stop her. I don’t.

Hunter stays quiet for a beat, then shrugs one shoulder like none of it matters. His voice comes out flat, almost bored. “It’s clear I’ve overstayed my welcome. Didn’t mean to give the wrong impression.” He pushes his half-empty Coke away and stands, the stool scraping loud against the sticky floor. “You kids have fun.”

He doesn’t look at me when he says it. Just turns and cuts through the crowd toward the door, shoulders broad and tense under the pulsing lights.

Disappointment hits me like a dull punch to the gut—but still sharp enough to cut through the buzz, heavy enough that I have to swallow twice to keep my face neutral. I force the corners of my mouth to stay up, laugh at something Heather says like I didn’t even notice him leave. Inside, though, the warm feeling curdles fast. Of course he brushed it off. Of course he walked away the second Lucy pushed.

It’s exactly what I needed to remember: Hunter is off-limits. Whatever that pull is between us, whatever made me dance like I was performing just for him, it’s a mistake. I’ve spent too many years learning how to keep the walls up after the prayer room tried to break me open and bleed out everything soft and wrong inside me. I’m not letting anyone past them again. Especially not him.

Lucy watches me for a second, her eyes softening just a fraction like she can see the crack forming, but she doesn’t call me on it. Instead, she bumps my shoulder with hers. “Come on, princess. One more round before last call?”

I nod, already reaching for my drink, the buzz turning a little sour now. “Yeah. Let’s dance.”

But even as I let them pull me back onto the floor, the disappointment sits there, cold and stubborn under the music. It cements the truth I already knew deep down: I really shouldn’t let Hunter past the walls I’ve put up. Not tonight. Not ever.

The city outside is still loud and alive when we finally spill out an hour later, but the ghosts feel closer than they have in weeks. I shove my hands in my pockets, cropped hoodie doing nothing against the bite in the air, and start the walk home alone.

Just me and the dark I know better than to invite in.

Sleep finally claims me somewhere around 4 a.m., the kind of heavy, ungrateful sleep that comes after too much noise and not enough honesty. One second, I’m staring at the ceiling watching headlights crawl across the cracks, the next, I’m gone.

The nightmare doesn’t ease me in. It slams the door shut behind me.

I’m back in the prayer room.

The air is thick with incense and sweat and the sour smell of fear that never quite leaves that place. Dim yellow light from a single bulb swinging overhead. The walls are close—wood paneling that feels like it’s breathing. I’m on my knees in the center of the circle, the rough carpet beneath my knees. Adult hands press down on my shoulders, heavy, unyielding. Fingers dig in like they’re trying to pin my soul in place.