Page 46 of Hunter

He’s not interested in me sexually. At least not the me that’s still fighting demons. Not the version that drinks too much, shows up where he shouldn’t, and carries burn scars from the night he couldn’t save the last person he cared about. That truth stings more than it should.

It makes me want to heal.

Who the fuck wants to heal because it might give them a chance with someone? That’s pathetic. That’s the kind of desperate, twisted shit I used to mock in other people. And yet, here I am, sitting on this bench next to a twenty-two-year-old guy, with golden curls and smudged eyeliner, quietly deciding I might try to get my shit together just on the off-chance he might look at me one day without that careful distance in his eyes.

“You should be scared,” I say finally, voice low. “I’m not exactly someone you should trust right now.”

The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. He glances up at me real fast, then back down at his open sketchbook.

“Do you mind if I draw you?”

Shock filters through me. That is not what I thought he would say. I expected him to agree with me, close the sketchbook, and make some polite excuse to be anywhere but here with the creepy older guy who keeps showing up in his life.

Instead, he’s asking to draw me.

I’m nodding before the words even leave my mouth, because if he’s drawing me that means I don’t have to leave him sitting here like some normal guy might. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

Charlie’s eyes flick up again, surprised for half a second, but he recovers quickly. He shifts on the bench, pulling his knee up between us so he can face me. I force my gaze to stay on his face, although every part of me wants to stare at the strip of stomach he exposes every time he shifts.

He starts drawing. Charcoal scratching softly against the paper. Every few seconds, his tongue pokes at the corner of his mouth in concentration, the same little habit I noticed when I watched him the other day. His knee bounces lightly once, then stills. The breeze keeps playing with his curls, and I have to clench my hand into a fist so I don’t reach over and tuck one behind his ear.

I sit as still as I can, letting him look at me. Really look. Not the version I show the world, not even the asshole I was in group, but the real one under everything. It feels exposing in a way I’m not used to. Vulnerable. And I still don’t move.

The silence stretches, comfortable and heavy at the same time. The fountain splashes behind us. Somewhere in the distance a kid laughs. Charlie’s eyes move between my face and the page, quick and focused, like he’s trying to capture something before it disappears.

After a minute he murmurs, almost to himself, “You’ve got a good face for drawing. Lots of shadows.”

I huff a quiet laugh, the sound rough in my throat. “That’s one way to put it.”

He smiles, small, crooked, the exact kind of smile that makes the obsession flare hotter. His charcoal keeps moving, shading something along my jaw. I watch the way his fingers smudge the lines, leaving faint black streaks on his skin, and I think about how easy it would be to reach over and wipe them off with my thumb.

I don’t.

Instead, I sit here letting him draw me for as long as he wants.

The sun warms my shoulders. Charlie’s knee brushes mine again when he shifts for a better angle. He doesn’t pull away and neither do I.

My face takes shape on his page, and it looks exactly like me, including the scar I have on my temple that I got from climbing trees as a kid.

Eventually he sighs, looks up at me with a full smile that hits me straight in the gut, and says, “Thanks. Drawing calms me down. But I’ve held you hostage long enough.”

I clear my throat before he can tell me I can leave, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. “Are you hungry? I can feed you.”

Charlie blinks, then laughs—bright, surprised, a little husky. The sound goes straight to my dick and my chest at the same time.

“Can you feed me?” He tilts his head, that crooked smile turning playful. “Bold offer, Hunter. You planning to hunt something down in the park, or are we talking actual food?”

I lean in just a fraction, letting my voice drop lower. “Whatever you want. Street cart hot dogs, shitty pizza, five-star whatever. Name it. I’m buying.”

His eyes sparkle with mischief as he closes the sketchbook. “Careful. I might take advantage of that. I’m starving, and I have expensive taste when someone else is paying.”

“Good,” I say, holding his gaze. “I’m ready to be taken advantage of.”

The words hang between us. Charlie’s cheek flush the faintest pink, but he doesn’t look away. Instead, he bites his bottom lip for half a second—just long enough to make me want to do it for him—then laughs again.

“You’re dangerous when you flirt, you know that?”

“Only with you,” I answer, honestly, before I can stop myself. “Most people I just grunt at.”