Page 39 of Hunter

“Hey…for what it’s worth,” he says, glancing sideways at me, “if we were both in a better place…I’d let you.”

His words are simple, and they don’t feel sleazy. It somehow makes my embarrassment feel less like humiliation and more like something shared. Something almost sweet.

I don’t know what to do with it.

My stomach flips hard. I can already feel myself tucking that sentence away somewhere deep, where I’ll pull it out later when the ghosts get loud again. The thought of Hunter, quietly admitting that he’d let me have him if things were different, it settles warm and dangerous in my chest.

I let out a shaky little laugh, trying to play it off. “Jesus Christ, don’t say shit like that right now. I’m running on zero sleep and bad decisions.”

He gives the smallest huff of amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Noted again.”

We reach the top of the subway stairs. The rumble of an incoming train vibrates up through the concrete. I pause for half a second, cheeks still burning, heart doing something stupid.

Hunter stops beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost brush.

He gestures down the stairs. “After you.”

Chapter 16

Hunter

It takes every ounce of will I have to keep my feet planted on the subway car while Charlie gives me that quick little wave and steps off at his stop. The doors hiss shut behind him, and I stay rooted in place even as every instinct screams at me to follow. To shadow him through the dark streets and make sure no one looks at him wrong, or gets too close, or tries to take advantage of him.

He made it clear he doesn’t need walking home. He’s a grown adult.

Jesus Christ.

Just being around him lights me up like nothing else has in years. The second he’s in my vicinity, everything else fades—the burns, the court order, the empty ache where Robby used to live. For those few minutes on the train, I forgot I was supposed to be broken. I just wanted to stay near him. Like a fucking drug straight to my system.

The train rattles on toward my stop. I stare at the scratched-up window, watching my own reflection stare back. Charlie’s words keep looping in my head: “if we were both in a better place, I would fuck you in a heartbeat.” The way his cheeks flushed right after, the regret flashing across his face chasing the blush away.

I shouldn’t have answered the way I did. “If we were both in a better place… I’d let you.” It was too honest. Too raw. Too close to admitting how much space he’s already taken up in my head.

By the time I climb the stairs to my shitty fourth-floor walk-up, the guilt is creeping back in like smoke under a door. The apartment is dark and quiet, the way it always is. No lights on except the one I leave above the sink so I don’t come home to total blackness. I drop my keys on the counter and stand there for a long minute, staring at the fridge.

I know what’s inside.

I open it anyway.

One six-pack of beer sits on the bottom shelf. I’d bought it the other night when Robby was especially loud, telling myself I was just keeping it as a test. Proof I could be stronger than the bottle.

My hand closes around one before I can talk myself out of it.

The cap twists off with a familiar hiss. The first cold swallow hits my tongue and slides down easy, too easy. For a few glorious seconds, the guilt quiets. The burn scars stop throbbing quite so loud. Robby’s face stops flashing behind my eyes every time I blink.

I finish the first one in under a minute, crushing the can in my fist.

Then the shame slams in.

“Fuck,” I mutter, already reaching for the second.

I catch myself halfway through it. My hand is shaking. The taste in my mouth turns sour. I can already feel tomorrow morning—the headache, the self-loathing, the way I’ll want to crawl back into that same cycle because at least it’s familiar.

I dump the rest of the second can down the sink, the liquid glugging loud in the quiet apartment. Then I grab the other four and do the same, one after another, foam and beer swirling down the drain while my chest tightens until I can barely breathe.

When the last drop is gone, I crush every can and shove them deep into the recycling bin like they’re evidence of a crime. My hands won’t stop shaking. I brace them on the edge of the sink, head hanging low, breathing hard through my nose.

Progress.